


In Defiance

by Lee Marchais (WeasleyWench), RomanyWalker, wench_fics (WeasleyWench)



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-06-26 11:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19767328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/Lee%20Marchais, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/wench_fics
Summary: At Daventry School for girls, Simon Holroyd lives comfortably. His best mate Luce is nearby, and his brother Matt is just a phone call away. The only problem: the small Welsh village they live in isn’t exactly bursting with potential lovers. He’s beginning to feel like there never will be the one for him, until a new teacher joins the staff and his whole world changes. Concrit and feedback welcome.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**September 2008**

Sometimes, when night crept across the floor and Luce sat tucked under his arm while they watched TV, Simon wondered if he could do exactly this for the rest of his life. It felt good to have her nestled close, slowly growing sleepy as she ran out of commentary to direct at the television programme he barely noticed. Simon sighed, pulling her more snugly against him – any closer and she’d meld with him; that would be fine with him. It seemed possible. Smiling, he looked at the top of her head. Her light-brown hair lay neatly, the tips brushing her shoulders; some of it tickled his neck where her head rested under his chin. Simon’s own hair was more of a chocolatey colour, but after working on the family farm all summer, it looked like tatty wool with tarnished copper wires threaded through it. Always a mess, according to Luce; like he’d just had a good shag. It ran in the family, who generally took the view best expressed by his brother Matt – bless him – that hair product was for poncy southerners and pretty backs.

A ghost of Luce’s breath tickled his chest; reflexively, Simon stroked her arm, her skin like velvet against his fingertips. He closed his eyes and exhaled, a pleasant buzz seeping into him. Up and down, he brushed her arm lightly; the sensation spread, pure contentment stretching its fingers through him. It felt good, running his hands across her skin, her clothes; he shivered, thinking this was as good as it would ever get, if there was no grey area when it came to attraction, and that being gay was as absolute as black or white. It couldn't be absolute, though, if he had managed to shag her - and he had, more than once. Perhaps it was so close as to make no difference: he could look at her and see why other men wanted her, but he couldn't _feel_ it, not in the way he'd felt it with other blokes he’d shagged. It would have been easy, if she'd been male; she was and always had been as close to perfect for him as he could imagine anyone being, apart from that one thing, her being a lass, and even _that_ was so close to right that it almost hurt to think about it. Sex could be easy enough, but only if they were both willing to accept feeling that something was missing - that physical intimacy was a sort of awkward anti-climax, that it would only ever be _good enough_ without being _good_ \- and he didn't think that he was. He didn't think that she would be, either. Simon _liked_ sex. Luce _liked_ sex. She deserved better, too. ‘Close’ wouldn't be good enough for either of them.

That night not even a week ago would remain a fuzzy, distant experience; only half-remembered, but remembered well enough to solidify his own quiet certainty of who and what he was, and lay to rest the niggling, lingering thought that maybe it _was_ only that he hadn't met the right lass yet, as his auntie Rita seemed to believe. He knew deep down that it had nothing to do with meeting the right lass. Although he was grateful for that certainty, and it had quieted a small voice of doubt, another nagging discomfort had arisen: he shouldn’t have done it. No matter how much he’d had to drink, he should never have taken advantage of Luce like that. The last thing he wanted was to lose her.

Simon tightened his grip very slightly and held Luce against him as though she might disappear if he let go. Eventually, as he knew, she _would_ disappear; she would go off to Hampshire and be the wife of a high-flying barrister who Simon couldn't quite persuade himself to believe she loved. She spent her holidays at the Holroyd farm, even in summer - apart from the last two weeks of this year’s: the boyfriend had finally proposed. That new ring sat heavy on her hand and somehow made Luce seem like a completely different person; it made Simon uneasy. He wasn’t James, and never would be, but that didn’t stop him occasionally wishing he could be, if only for long enough to feel wanted by her and want her back just as much. Taking care of her was one thing and fulfilled him in some ways; the rest was just confusing. He knew that it would be too ask for, to be able to see Luce through somebody else’s eyes and feel something like desire so strong it hurt. Simon felt bits of that, and her impending loss would erode bits of him from inside out. He just didn’t know how to say that to her. For better or worse, she looked happy, even if her engagement seemed nothing like the marriages he'd seen, the ones that had shaped what he wanted for himself. He remembered when he was a young lad, watching his mum and dad together, wanting just what they'd had before she had died, what his eldest brother Dan had with Maria; the stability and normality of a family of his own. Simon envied their contentment and rightness together.

Luce could’ve been Simon’s Maria. At least, he often thought she could’ve been if he were straight. It was such a fine line, the border between sexual attraction and love. Desire – the same desire that Matt knew for Luce, like iron had replaced the marrow in his bones and she was the only lodestone in the world, strong and sure - wasn’t one Simon knew, but he loved her more than anybody else in his life.

Closing his eyes, Simon tried to imagine Luce and James together. James was sophisticated, urbane, and reserved; Luce was a mad ball of energy most of the time, bringing life and noise wherever she went. They seemed too different, to Simon - and if James found out about what Simon had done, Luce wouldn’t stay engaged for long. Even though she’d happily participated, Simon couldn’t help wondering if she’d blame him if things went badly with James.

So he could still lose her, even if she didn't leave to get married.

Simon frowned at the floor, thinking. It could be brilliant, him and Luce, if things were different. If _he_ were different - or if he _weren't_ different, different from the other men in his family because he wanted to shag blokes. Only Luce had ever made him wish seriously that he were ‘normal’, not that he was sure that she would actually want him even if he were straight. Luce leaned toward ‘pretty’ men, and Simon wasn’t ‘pretty’. Of course, she took the piss a lot; they both did, but that didn’t mean she would ditch James for him. Loving a mate and being in love with him were two different things. He knew; he’d never been in love, and was starting to think he might never be. In fairness, he had to admit that he would never have expected the village - with its population of about five hundred souls including dogs and horses, and closest larger town over an hour away - to offer a wide assortment of suitable partners, but he felt justified in being disappointed that the only one had proved to be a complete tosser; after contracting gonorrhoea from him, Simon had decided that he’d rather wear both hands out than put himself anywhere near the prick again. He wasn't heartbroken: it had never been more than convenience for either of them, but he had been angry. Angry and then suddenly, horribly afraid: it could have been so much worse. Even thinking about getting _it_ made his skin feel covered in maggots.

Simon squeezed his eyes shut and took deep breaths, trying to right the wrong turns his mind had decided to take. He only had one more trip left to the GP for confirmation that he was all clear. He exhaled. If he’d given anything to Luce, he’d never forgive himself. _Fuck._ She had _known_ what had happened with Mick. _Too bloody careless_ , _Luce_. He hoped that even if he got sick, she wouldn’t. _She can't._ He sighed.

Until he knew for certain, nothing would feel right. Simon chewed his bottom lip. _Negative_ was what he wanted – needed – to hear. A few days remained before he’d know anything, though, but with life at the school starting up again, he at least had things to keep his mind busy. A new teacher would be joining the staff; he and Luce had promised the headmistress they would meet the new teacher and help him get settled. He was their sort of age, she had told them; Luce had unkindly remarked after the headmistress had gone on her way that his arrival would finally bring the teaching staff's average age down to fifty and patently ignored Simon’s look of disapproval.

Luce had been asleep for a while by the time Simon realised it was nearing midnight. He turned off the TV and slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back; she made no protest, for once, when he lifted her and carried her through to the bedroom. Like always, she reached for his pillow and curled up once in bed. It didn’t take long for her hand to start searching the empty space beside her, though, even in her sleep. Simon smiled slightly, aware that she wasn’t reaching for him but the cuddle she could get.

Before the darkness clouded everything, he paused and looked at her for a moment, realising he wanted to be the pillow and sheet she balled up under her arm, for someone to want him so much that they would seek him out even in sleep.

Simon sighed and went to turn off the lights.

When he finally joined her in bed, he had no time to settle before she gravitated until her body fitted against him like they were made for one another. It was nice, but no matter how he turned, twisted or arched, he couldn’t get comfortable _enough_. It felt strange, but a familiar sort of strange; one he had been increasingly aware of for months. The awkwardness wasn’t in the position: it was that Luce _did_ fit so perfectly with him and yet he couldn’t want her. Not that she wanted him as more than a mate, but still... he reckoned it was part of a cosmic joke. Only side-by-side _could_ they fit so perfectly together but not actually _be_ together like a pair of roads that ran parallel but never connected.

After an hour of listening to Luce grumble every time he moved, and feeling her shift to close any gap he'd created, Simon was still awake, contemplating their weird perfect-imperfection. He looked at the clock and the fuzzy numbers, hoping if he stared at them long enough, everything would make sense, or at least he’d fall asleep.

Sleep came first.

\+ + +

Sweat gathered and ran down Simon’s forehead as he waited with Luce and Jo for the new teacher to arrive. He pulled his collar up and wiped the moisture from his face. It didn’t help much; the t-shirt was already building up enough to wring out into a cup. Luce started practising her French with Jo – Josiane, the resident French teacher, from Paris – to pass the time. They seemed completely unbothered by the heat. _Naturally._

Luce had already started hinting about lunch before the taxi arrived, generously extolling the virtues of Simon’s Yorkshire pudding sandwiches with proper gravy and home-made chips. She stopped mid-sentence and exchanged a significant look with Jo: she had bet a bottle of Bombay Sapphire that the new bloke would share Simon's inclinations and be as immune to Jo's considerable charms as Simon himself, and stakes that high were taken seriously. Simon had been unable to discover any reason beyond “I've got a sort of feeling" for her unshakable conviction; Jo had tossed her head majestically and accepted the bet without hesitation: the odds were, after all, massively in her favour.

What they had not thought to bet on was the likelihood of the new bloke being heart-stoppingly good-looking. He was. He stepped out of the car and stretched, presenting his profile to the onlookers, and Simon felt as if someone had smacked him across the back of the head with a breeze block.

Before either Jo or Luce could speak, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Not gay.” At least Simon didn’t think so. The man beginning to oversee the taxi driver unloading his belongings didn’t look like… anything. _Good_ , yes, even from that distance; he was tall and willowy with a fine arse and broad, straight shoulders. In what looked like a tribute to Cary Grant, he wore his hair swept to the side along a parting so precise that it was almost surgical. Not a strand seemed out of place. _Just him, really,_ Simon thought. He wore corduroy trousers and a jumper, despite the raging heat. If his colouring were anything to go by, the man didn’t spend a lot of time out of doors. The bloke’s complexion was fair, almost delicate, under the midday sunlight. Simon leaned forward and rested his forearms on the gate. _No, this bloke isn’t delicate; he’s elegant_. That didn’t make him gay, any more than a style of dress and grooming did. Having been hired by Mrs Dalgliesh to work in a girls' school didn’t either - married, perhaps.

He looked at Luce and Jo. “He’s not gay.”

They shared a look of doubt that Simon didn’t feel.

Not that it mattered. A new face didn’t mean new prospects, as Jo – vixen that she was – seemed to think. In Simon’s experience, men like this one wanted partners like them: educated, posh and wealthy. The only single person at the school who might fit that description _was_ Jo.

Simon sighed at where his thoughts headed. Luce had been bang on, as usual. He _did_ want Mr Right. Someone who liked shagging, who’d let Simon touch him, someone he _wanted_ to touch, and could freely, would be nice. Someone to take care of, who respected him. Someone kind and who his father – and Granddad – wouldn’t dislike would be brilliant. Someone Matt could stand to look at beside his brother as a lover and respect would be perfect.

Sometimes he thought it’d be easier if he could be like Luce was before James: perfectly happy with a random anonymous shag in a dark room in the back of a club when the urge took her, making a grand game of flirting across a crowded dance floor, and letting her body speak for her, simply because she could. Every eye on her – she loved it, and had her pick of the lot. It was the same way she’d pulled James; the wanker just hadn’t ever let go.

“He’s not straight,” Luce said, steering his thoughts back to the bloke on the driveway.

An easy feat, that. Simon glanced at the man again. “He’s more interested in books than sex. They always look like that, the really clever ones. Can’t ever tell what they are. Pity – he’s a good-looking bloke.”

Two hums of agreement followed.

“I wish I had his cheekbones,” Jo said, her French accent thicker than when she’d left for the summer.

“I wish I had his hair,” Luce said.

Simon shook his head, his attention still on the waiting car and man. Not that he was an expert on female beauty, but he knew that Luce and Jo fell into the attractive category. Jo, he thought, would never have been his type, even if he were interested in lasses: she looked like Dita Von Teese - more a 30s pin-up girl than a teacher.

Their new colleague frowned at the departing taxi, then his bags, and the two large trunks that had been hefted from the vehicle's boot. _A little help never hurt._ Simon grinned and opened the gate.

“Where are you...?”

Luce’s voice faded under the crunch of gravel as Simon crossed the driveway to the newcomer.

“Same thing I did for you and Jo,” he called over his shoulder.

It was too hot. Simon couldn’t believe the bloke wasn’t sweating; _he_ had been just from standing still. For once, rain would’ve been welcome to take the edge off the swelter. He rubbed his face, and the light sheen of sweat covering it.

The man had lifted a rucksack onto one shoulder and had begun to try to gather up some of the smaller bags. Simon cocked his head and smiled.

He stopped when the other man dropped his rucksack.

“Hi. I’m Simon – Simon Holroyd. Games master. Need some help?”

The man glanced round. “Oh. Yes, thank you; that would be marvellous.” Southern cut-glass diction, and a crisp, resonant voice, Simon noted. “Lawford; classics,” he said, turning to face Simon and extending his hand.

Simon accepted it, and held for a moment longer than necessary. Lawford’s skin was smooth and cool despite his heavy clothing and the heat. “Sorry. Nice to meet you.” Up close, Lawford looked even better. His eyes, pale blue and bright, caught Simon’s attention. He smiled, watching Lawford’s lips move, but not hearing what he said. He reckoned he could find out later. “What room?”

Lawford fished through his trouser pockets. Eventually, he withdrew his key and squinted at the tag.

“Seven, I think.”

“Just across from me, then. It’s this way. Luce! Could you get the door?”

Simon hoisted one trunk; then adjusted his grip on it and reached for the other.

“Oh, those are rather heavy...”

“It’s not far,” Simon said reassuringly and shifted his load.

Luce passed by and gave him a look, but he ignored it.

“This way.” Simon started for the door.

Luce stuck her tongue out as Simon squeezed through the doorway; he knocked an elbow on the frame. “Bugger.” _Bl_ _oody old houses!_ Luce snickered, the sound following them all the way to the first floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

\+ + +

  
All around, large boxes sat on the floor of room seven, adding to the general lack of homeliness and feeling of welcome. No rugs had been laid, no curtains covered the windows, the chairs were still stacked atop the table, and the empty refrigerator sat with its door flung open as the domestics had left it. It reminded Simon of when he’d moved in nearly a decade ago, fresh out of university and trying to settle in. The only proof of planning for a future inhabitant was the boxes and the mail waiting on top of one of them. An envelope with a handwritten label stood out on top of one of the piles; Lawford reached for it immediately while Simon looked for enough floor-space to set his burdens down.

There really was too much for one person to handle; if Lawford wanted to get settled quickly, he wouldn’t do it on his own. “D’you want some help?” Simon slid one box onto a sturdy trunk, and adjusted his grip on the other to place it beside its mate.  
Lawford turned and smiled – a bright, wonderful smile. For a moment, Simon had trouble breathing. His heart knocked against his chest like a fist to a door – here, take me! At least it felt like it. Simon couldn’t imagine it being a terribly pretty sight if it did escape. Blood on the floor, chest open and heart pounding out its dying beat... no, he didn’t think it would be the sort of thing he should continue to think about.

“If you have the time, that would be tremendously helpful.”

Unable to resist, Simon smiled back. Gentle warmth spread through him like a calm, refreshing breeze. Lawford was handsome. Wonder if he’s single. He ran a finger across the top of a box. Not that it matters. I don't think he's gay. He glanced at the writing on one of the top flaps. ‘Books’ was written across the brown surface in thick black ink. “Yeah, of course. Are all of these books?”  
Lawford looked at the disjointed kingdom of cardboard.

“I would presume so, yes. Jacinta tends to be very good about labelling things correctly.”

Simon quirked a smile. Staff were only supplied with two bookcases, of a regulation 100 x 200: he doubted that even a quarter of the boxes’ contents would be accommodated.

Lawford returned his attention to the large envelope in his hand, frowning at a note scrawled beneath what was obviously the original inscription: Alexander, open this now. Lawford – Alexander, he presumed – neatly tore the seal and pulled out a set of tinkling keys and a wodge of papers.

“You’re not going to have enough space for all of them, with just those. I’ve got some I’m not using that you can have.”  
Alexander paused in the act of scanning the first neatly-typed page and looked at the cases as if he had never seen them before.  
“Good lord, is that it? I did explain to Mrs Dalgliesh that I had quite a few books.”

Simon hid a smile: probably the only other person who would have described the collection before him as merely 'quite a few books' was the school librarian.

Alexander regarded him apologetically. “Would you mind? I’m sure I can order some more and return yours later.”  
“No, don’t worry about it. I’m not much of a reader. Really. I’ll just be a moment.”

Alexander smiled. “Thank you.” Then he returned to his envelope. Whatever its contents, they must have been important, or perhaps as an academic he couldn’t resist whatever awaited him among the documents: somehow, though, it was oddly endearing. Smiling to himself, Simon left Alexander to his packet and went to his own room.

\+ + +E  
Emptying the bookcases of their contents - books, a dozen or so empty but interesting beer bottles, a pair of boots Matt had left after his last visit, and a couple of DVDs that had been waiting for Luce to reclaim them - and cleaning them down took a while, but Simon eventually had them ready and wrestled into Alexander’s suite. The living room looked like a gapped maze with the short boxes and tall cases just inside the doorway as if they were sentinels keeping watch over the proceedings and possibly Simon.

Sweat trickled down his forehead and prickled on his scalp. He felt like he was in a pot of soup. To stave off the heat a touch, he pulled off his t-shirt and draped it over the back of the armchair nearest him.

“Where do you want them?” Simon looked at the bookcases.

Alexander laughed. “Next to the others?”

Simon nodded, thinking they’d all fit side-by-side. He manoeuvred them carefully into place and replaced the shelves, then glanced at the array of boxes with their lids parted like open arms and realised there still wasn’t enough space. “I think Luce has a spare, too. I’ll ask her.”

“I really wouldn’t want to put people to any inconvenience.”

“You’re not. She’s just down the hall.” Somebody, he thought, should put them to their proper use. Every room had two, a sofa, a chair, a desk, a bed, a small en-suite bathroom, and a kitchenette; the rest, staff had to obtain for themselves or go without. Simon didn’t mind going without them, and Luce certainly didn’t have so many books that she needed both of hers. Granted, she had more books than Simon and did actually read on occasion, but she had never broken her student habit of preferring stacks on tables and floor; apart from serving as receptacles for random clutter, much like Simon’s had, her bookcases just took up space. Taking one away would give her room to wall-mount her TV, or acquire the ballet barre she wanted.

Alexander looked at the boxes, then the bookcases. “If you’re sure she wouldn’t be troubled, I think it might be wise...”

Simon grinned. “She won’t be.” And if she was, he’d deal with it later.

He headed down the hall and opened Luce’s door. She wasn’t in the living room. “Luce!”

“What?” came from the bathroom.

“That bookcase you aren’t using, do you mind if I take it to Alexander’s room?”

“What for?” She appeared in the doorway.

“He actually has books to put on them? I already gave him mine.”

She blinked. “How many does one bloke need?”

“A lot.”

Luce rolled her eyes.

“Is that a yes?” Simon asked, grinning.

“Yeah, help yourself.”

“Thanks, love. You’re a star.”

  
\+ + +

“There we are.” Simon surveyed his handiwork with a smile. Five bookcases now lined the walls of Alexander’s room, all ready for the city of books.

The smile that Alexander gave in response made Simon’s toes tingle. It was sweet and charming, and made Simon want to know whether a good shag could make him look that way, too.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Simon lifted his t-shirt from the back of the chair he’d draped it over and wiped his face. He thought about suggesting they open a window, but it wasn’t his room. If Alexander wanted a window open, he’d do it. Looking around, Simon dabbed his neck and chest, noticing that all the boxes did indeed have books in them. Load after load of books of various sizes, shapes and ages sat waiting. “How about I hand the books to you? Or would you rather get the bedroom or kitchen sorted first?”

Alexander looked surprised but confused, as if he could not fathom why any question should exist.

“No, no; those can wait. I’d rather get these sorted out, first.” Alexander gestured toward the books.

Simon nodded. He would have done the kitchen first, himself, but he had never pretended to be an academic: Alexander obviously was, and his priorities reflected it. “Shall I just dig in and hand them to you, then?” Blokes like this one had a system, Simon bet – one wrong placement would probably irritate the hell out of him.

Alexander chuckled. “Are you sure you haven’t something you’d rather be doing this morning?”

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

“Then I would be most grateful for the help.” Alexander glanced at the boxes. “It’s rather a big job.”

“I like helping people, so it’s not a problem.”

“You must have been a scout,” Alexander said with faint amusement.

“No, not really. It’s a family thing. I’d say it was Mum, but Dad’s the same way.” Simon squatted and began gathering books. They had a smell to them, wisdom – age and knowledge and the dry pages. Leather and cloth bindings with gilt and embossed letters. Some words weren’t even in English, which didn’t surprise him as much as make him wonder how anybody made sense of it.  
Alexander accepted the first lot. “Yes?” he asked in polite inquiry.

“Just helping people when they need it, really. I mean, Mum made sure we knew to help people, but I don’t know which of them did it more.” Simon shrugged. Both of his brothers did it, too – it seemed to be bred in the bone.

Alexander smiled. “It’s a laudable precedent.”

The placement of books was delicate, a precise operation that Simon watched, entranced. He’d never seen someone, apart from a parent, so careful with a thing before. It was like the stack of bound paper was living, breathing somehow. Simon wondered if this man believed that.

Simon handed him another stack. “Where are you from, then? Somewhere down south?”

Alexander paused, considering. “I suppose so, yes. Southeast from here, at least.”

With no idea where that could be, Simon just nodded.

Alexander smiled. “And you, I would say, are a Yorkshireman, though I would guess that you’ve been away from the Ridings for some time.”

Simon grinned.

“I would say not South, and certainly not East, but I can’t quite decide between North and West.”

“West - Huddersfield's probably the closest town.” Simon’s grin became a smile. “And, yeah, it’s been a few years since I lived there.”

Alexander nodded. “Mmm. It’s a long time since I visited that part of the world.”

“Yeah? You’re welcome to come to the farm sometime, if you like.”

Alexander laughed.

Simon didn't see what was funny in the invitation. It would be interesting to have somebody new at the farm. Simon’s granddad would love taking the piss with a southern man. Of course, Alexander being fit helped – getting to know him would be easier if they didn’t think of each other as colleagues. Maybe. Then again, he would be welcome to come just for a new face around the farm. There was plenty of room, and everybody liked Luce; he saw no reason why Alexander would be less well received. Most of his family would be pleased he had a new friend, and all, even if he wasn't a lover.

“That’s uncommonly good of you.”

“You’re alright as long as Maria likes you.”

Alexander gave him a quizzical look.

“My brother’s wife. She runs the house," Simon explained. "One of my brothers.”

“Brothers?”

“Yeah, just the two. One’s in London; he plays rugby. He’s not married. That’s Matt. And Dan’s at the farm.”

“Ah. I have a brother, as well. A twin, actually. Christopher. He’s a priest.”

“Yeah? He as good-looking as you are?”

Pink spread across Alexander’s cheeks. “Good lord, no! I mean, he’s the good-looking one. I, ah, got the intelligence.” Then the pink grew darker. “Not that he isn’t, of course. He’s terribly clever.”

Like a set of gears without an engine, Alexander ground to a halt.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” That was the last thing Simon wanted. This man wasn’t like any he’d met – at least not in a long time: either oblivious to or genuinely dismissive of his own good looks. The comment about the twin made Simon's own mind stall. Jesus, if he's not the good looking one, what does the other look like?!

Alexander cleared his throat. “Not at all.” He blinked a few times, then carried on shelving books. Pink still tinted his ears and neck, those high cheekbones.

Simon smiled. “Where’s your brother?”

"Syria.” Alexander glanced at Simon. “He’s attending a conference; he’s ordinarily in England. He’s currently teaching in a theological college in Cumbria. The building really is quite remarkable.”

"Yeah? Did you both plan to teach, or did it just happen?”

Alexander frowned faintly. “I certainly didn’t. It’s always been part of Christopher’s calling, though.”

“This is your first time teaching, then?”

“Teaching children, yes. I did a certain amount of teaching at the university, but I do suspect that, ah, postgraduates are rather different.”

Simon laughed. “Yeah, just a bit. Still, I reckon Greek and Latin’ll be popular here again.” For a lot of reasons that had nothing to do with learning a dead language, he thought. If he’d had a teacher who looked like Alexander, he might not have learned much, but he would certainly have gone to his lessons.

“Do you think so? I do hope so.” He seemed to be sincere, even if he had missed the unspoken point. Simon wanted to offer him some advice or say something clever, but all he could do was smile.

“Yeah, I’m sure it will be.”

Alexander smiled back shyly. “That would be wonderful. I have been rather... anxious about starting here, I have to admit. I understand that the classics in general are rather unpopular, and Mrs Dalgliesh is of course taking rather a large risk on me.”  
Simon nodded. There was some advice he could give the newcomer. Maybe it would help. “The girls are mostly well-behaved. You’ll have a few with a crush, but nothing too awful; it's just a phase they go through. They mostly leave me alone. I had some who put a hole in the wall to the shower in my office, but nothing too bad. Luce waited until she could catch them red-handed and read them the riot act. If you need any help with that sort of thing, just ask. You’ve got the syllabus and all that?”

For a moment, Alexander looked slightly alarmed, but blinked it away. “Yes. I wrote it last week, and of course Miss Calverleigh left comprehensive notes.”

Simon nodded. “The girls really are alright. There aren’t many men on staff, of course. Just you and me, on the teaching staff, and a couple of gardeners and caretakers, but they don't have a lot to do with the girls. We're at the deep end, so we're more of a target for the hormones, but you learn to deal with it.”

"I see.” He looked slightly appalled.

“Oh, sorry. I don't mean anything will happen. That just seems to be the biggest ‘risk’ around here. I’m gay, so they know better than to try it on with me. Luce starts every year by reminding them.” Simon chuckled.

“Does she?”

“Yeah. Anyway, you’ll pick it up easily enough, I reckon.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Simon reached for more books but only scraped cardboard with his fingertips. Odd, he thought. He didn’t remember having handed Alexander so many books already. Looking up proved he had, though: books now sat in irregular positions on the shelves in some order only Alexander seemed to know. Two or three stood side-by-side, then there was nothing else. Simon got up and moved to the next box, unearthing more books like secrets. Simon wondered what they said about Alexander, if anything.

“Here you go.” The next stack was lifted from Simon’s hands. “The art teacher might ask you to pose for a life drawing lesson, or something. She’s been after me for years.”

Alexander looked horrified. “I beg your pardon?”

Simon wondered if it was just modesty or something else. “Pose for her class,” he clarified. It did not seem to reassure Alexander: he put his book down, and pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to hold off a headache.

“I feel sure that you can’t actually intend to give the impression that this place is a seething hotbed of depravity.”  
Hardly, Simon thought, frowning. The only depravity tended to happen with the sixth form or in the staff wing with Jo, Simon, and Luce.

“Of course not. I did say most of them were well-behaved. Are you alright?”

“I seem to have developed a headache.”

“Would you like something to drink? Tea, squash?” Maybe it would help calm him down or at least make him less anxious.  
That endearing look of horror came over Alexander’s face again. “Oh, how dreadfully rude of me; I should have...” He headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like something?”

“No, thanks. I just thought you might.”

Simon had never seen someone so simultaneously skittish and charming before. Manners were one thing, but one small lapse wasn’t enough for him to act like he’d committed a serious social faux pas and that there would be drastic consequences if he didn’t rectify it instantly. Reassurance sat on Simon’s tongue, but for once, it wouldn’t roll off and present itself. Besides, what would he say? They didn’t know each other; it’d just be empty words, until they got acquainted further. Alexander nodded and continued into the kitchen area. Water rushing from the tap and into the sink sounded, then ended just as quickly. Simon reached into the box again, fingers brushing over thinner textured materials. Some of it was smooth, some like small pores and tacky – felt like photographs and paper. He looked down, running his fingers back and forth over the surface, feeling the small bump from their overlap. Most of them were photos of odd buildings, ruins, and pottery. Beneath them, photos of women in shorts and bikini tops surrounded Alexander, who had an air of perplexity which made Simon pause and wonder – most men paid attention when attractive women were nearly naked with them. Attractive men, too, come to that; Simon had always drawn attention when he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt.

Moving more photos aside revealed one of Alexander and his brother, an identical twin despite Alexander's assertion that the other was better looking, but different in dress and grooming. Simon paused to look at them more closely. He found that Christopher may have been fractionally broader across the shoulder, slightly blonder, and less milky of complexion; like a version of Alexander who spent more time getting healthy exercise in the sun than poring over books in a dim library, but the differences were only superficial.  
Simon shook himself. He had no idea how old they were in the photo –it was a formal photographer's studio shot. Further down, there was a photo of a woman who looked like Miss Marple, then below it, a tortoise in a garden. He flipped back to the one of Alexander with his brother.

“Nice photos. This must be you and Christopher.”

Alexander returned with a half-full glass of water and looked at the photo. “Yes, it is.”

“You’re both good-looking.” Better than, really, Simon thought.

Though he looked mildly puzzled, Alexander politely said, “Thank you.” He regarded the photo again. “That was several years ago.”  
Simon looked at Alexander, then the photo. “You haven’t changed much.” He smiled.

Regarding the picture this time, he looked a lot more serious. “No, I suppose not.”

“Where would you like these? Or are they going with the books?” Simon asked.

Alexander blinked and reached for them.

Simon surrendered the stack and continued with the books. “Was the tortoise a pet?”  
“Yes. When we were children.”

More questions sprang to mind, but the books in his hands had disappeared. He followed Alexander’s water-like movement, blindly reaching for the next set. The corners of hardbacks scraped the back of his hand, drawing his attention downward again. With more focus, he selected a few. The feel of the leather and paper in his hands was nice: hard, soft, smooth... different textures to tickle his fingertips.

It wasn’t until Simon’s stomach began to growl that he looked at the time on his mobile. A message was also waiting from Luce; he rolled his eyes at her lewd insinuation and decided not to reply. The hours and minutes since he’d met Alexander had slipped away like the sweat on his brow. Above him, Alexander stood arranging his books and trinkets. Simon couldn’t look away from his broad, straight shoulders flexing or the curve of his neck when he adjusted something Simon couldn’t see just so.  
  
Blinking again, Simon reoriented to the room. The shelves were filled to capacity, but several boxes were untouched. “That looks like all we can do for now,” he said. “There are probably some more bookcases in storage. If you have a word with Mr Johnson, he'll find something for you.”

Alexander nodded. “Thank you; I shall look into it.” He straightened a few of the books. “It really was terribly kind of you to help me with all this.”

Simon smiled. “Not a problem. You’ve missed dinner in the dining hall, but I usually cook for myself anyway; if you’re hungry, I’d be happy to make something for you. If you like steak, anyway.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly; I’ve put you out enough for one day,”

Chuckling, Simon tried to reassure him, “You haven’t. Honestly. I really don’t mind. Like I said, I cook for myself anyway. It’s nothing making something for you, too.”

“It’s awfully generous of you to offer, but I really couldn’t. I shall sort things out in here and then see what I can, ah, find.”  
Simon shrugged; he wasn't going to push, and it wasn't unreasonable for the man to want some time to himself. “Alright. If you’re sure. I can come back in the morning and give you a tour, if you want.”

Alexander smiled. “That would be lovely.”

Though he was reluctant to leave, Simon nodded. “Good night, then. If you need anything, I’m...” he pointed across the hall, “...just there.”

Smiling again, Alexander said, “Thank you.”

With nothing more to say, Simon went back to his room. For a while, he sat on his sofa, wondering how he’d missed the entire afternoon. He ran his fingers together, remembering the feel of the books, Alexander’s skin when it had brushed by accident. He flexed his toes and bit the inside of his lip and wondered what the hell was wrong. He reckoned it was the last few days, coming back, that night with Luce, meeting Alexander... it’d been rather busy for him. Now that his stomach was reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since Luce’s god-awful breakfast, it was time to cook. He pulled out his mobile and shook his head at the screen. Luce had been playing again – the background picture was a thoroughly indecent one of Matt that she must have taken at the farm.  
He flipped through the menu and selected her name.

Hngry? he tapped on the screen, then pressed send.

He got his answer when the door opened a few minutes later and she bounced in, wearing one of her inevitable faded tennis dresses. He smiled and said, “Hope you’re hungry.”

Luce just grinned – all the answer he needed.

She sat beside him, and put her feet up on the coffee table, her skirt riding higher up her thighs with the movement to disclose the few lingering bruises left from that drunken night, and he felt another twinge of guilt.  
“You’ve seen my legs before,” she said. “What are you cooking?”

“Steaks. You’ve still got bruises.”

She shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Cool. Kept you busy, didn’t he?”

It took a moment to process the bruises being no more than water off a duck’s back to her. Part of it felt like she was brushing him off and he couldn’t work out why it bothered him so much. He looked at her thighs again, then finally lined up a thought. “He has a lot of books; I helped him unpack them.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thrilling.”

“He’s nice,” Simon said, standing, and then heading for the kitchen.

“You wouldn’t have spent all day with him if he’d been nasty.  
Of course he wouldn’t have, but he just thought she should know for future reference anyway. “Sorry about pizza. You want that instead?”  
She laughed. “Steak sounds good to me. Have you got any gravy left for the chips?”

Simon laughed back, brandishing the jug. “Don't I always? Catch up with Jo?”

"Yeah. She did what she always does this summer.”

Which actually meant going home to France to spend time on her family’s estate, but Luce liked to joke about her having a secret second life as a dominatrix. Simon would not have been surprised to find that she actually did.

From the living area, Simon heard the latest standings for the Premiership, then the channel changed, and whatever Luce had decided to watch faded into the background of his thoughts as he focussed on seasoning steak and turning potatoes into chips.  
  
“Aunt Kitty says this bloke’s some sort of total megastar in the world of classics. I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”

“Yeah? Me, either. She say anything else?” Simon started on the onion rings.

“Not really. Posh bloke from the Cotswolds somewhere. Degrees coming out of his ears. No family to speak of.”

“He’s got a twin.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. Good-looking pair. Look just alike, apart from the hair and clothes. And the brother has a tan.” Luce laughed. “He’s a priest. Alexander said he teaches at a theological college.”

“Anglican priest, yeah. Aunt Kitty said that. He’s going back to the Cotswolds; he’s got a parish there, now, or whatever it is. She didn’t say he was a twin, though. God, she’ll go on and on about that when she finds out.”

“Will she?”

Luce nodded. “Shedloads of twins on my mum’s side of the family.”

“Oh, right. You told them about James?” Simon asked.  
  
“Yeah. She was pleased.” Just as he’d thought. “Apparently he’s got a seriously scary secretary.”

“Who, James?” This was the first he'd heard of it.

Luce wrinkled her nose. “No, this Alexander. Talks like one of the posher girls from this place, on the phone, but she’s got more metalwork than the average ironworks, and her hair’s seven colours. And she turned up on a motorbike.”  
  
Simon laughed. “Nice.”

“Dog-Leash didn’t think so, from what Aunt Kitty said.”

“She doesn’t like much.” Now that things could sit on their own for a few moments, Simon looked for his t-shirt; it needed to go into his washing basket. He didn’t see it on the sofa, and Luce hadn’t put it on. Then he remembered: over the back of the armchair, where’d he’d laid it before starting to help Alexander.

“Apparently she threatened to put my dresses and your lack of underwear on the agenda for the next staff meeting.”

“I wear underwear.”

Luce snickered. “Yeah, but there was that time she called into the office and you’d just got out of the shower, and you propped your foot up on the bench...”

A one-off view up the leg of his shorts meant he never wore underpants, apparently. “I was headed back to my room. Good god. The one bloody time.... One bloody time!”

“Yeah,” Luce said, laughing.

“Me not wearing t-shirts didn’t come up?”

“Not more than about a hundred times, no.”

Simon chuckled. “It’s hot. And I usually do it in here or when I’m running and the girls are still in bed.”

“Aunt Kitty said Mrs Chadwick convinced her that she can’t actually make rules about what you wear in your own time. And also if it bothers her that much to stop watching you.”

“At least I’m dressed during lessons.”

“Yeah, that was pointed out. Except in the pool, and she’s thankful that you wear shorts and not trunks.”

Considering how ridiculous he looked in them, it was better all around that way. Simon laughed. “At least I’m not Matt. And I’ve left my t-shirt in Alexander's room.” He headed to the door.  
“Yeah, I said that.”

“That would be obscene.”

“Mmm,” she hummed appreciatively.

Personally, Simon didn’t see the appeal; he wouldn’t want a bloke with that sort of cock near his arse. Mouth, maybe... just not in him. He shook his head. “I thought James had a nice cock.”

“He has. Not in Matt’s league, though.”

“Not many are. Apart from Dan.” Not that his relative lack of endowment bothered Simon at all. His average cock suited his needs – and usually his partner at the time – just fine. Not having had any complaints yet – not even from Luce; picky and demanding menace she was, by her own admission many times – had to mean something. He had long accepted that he would always be smaller than his enormous brothers, and outgrown any residual envy. He stood over six feet and was perfectly happy not being closer to seven. They all led completely different lives, even if they seemed to want the same things. It was just harder for Simon to have them, and Matt had chosen to focus on his career while he was at his peak; Dan was the only one to have settled down early. There still seemed to be the same expectations of Matt as there were of Dan; Simon was the only one nobody expected to have kids – and the one who wanted them most. Thing was, they didn’t account for him finding a partner who wanted children, too, and didn’t mind adopting, or having a surrogate mother. So far, his luck hadn’t been that good. Good enough, though, with his job at the school and minimal concerns.  
Instead of getting maudlin, he settled in with Luce. Being with her was familiar and returned the balance to his world, even if for only a little while. It was enough, whether she knew it or not. He hoped she did.

“I love you,” he said and kissed her temple.

“Idiot.”

Simon smiled. Only two women that he knew could make an insult loving. What am I going to do without her?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Taking two stairs at a time, with a grin, Simon continued his sprint from the village, to the school, and to the first floor of the ‘young staff’ wing. He knocked on Luce’s door the moment it was within reach. When she didn’t answer, he went in anyway. She wasn’t on the sofa, in the kitchenette; he glanced from side to side. “Where the— Luce?”

“What?”

In his room; he should have known. Simon closed her door and strolled down the hall still smiling. The first thing he saw when he opened the door was Luce’s bare arse, hardly covered by her tennis dress. He stopped for a moment and had no words. He was certain if he were Matt, he would be able to think of something appropriate - or inappropriate. He shook himself. For some reason, she was bent down beside his coffee table with a flannel in hand. The magazines and remotes now sat in neat stacks and rows; when he’d left that morning to give Alexander a tour of the grounds, the two new issues of his favourite rugby magazines had been on the sofa, along with two remotes, his laptop and a stack of DVDs.

Luce turned to look at him; he read it: _well, are you going to tell me or am I going to have to ask?_ He didn’t want her to ask.

“Everything’s right. Test results were all negative.” He beamed.

Luce got up and flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him so tightly it hurt. The cloth in her hand hit him across the back of the head, and a squeal of delight pierced his ear. He hugged her back, feeling just as good, if not better. The weight of guilt and what-ifs no longer sat on his shoulders, and he could breathe knowing there were no infections that he could’ve given to her. She was safe.

“Made my day. We should celebrate or something.”

Luce grinned. “Excellent. I’ve got gin.”

Gin was evil. It was like living sin floating through his body when he drank too much of it. The last time he’d had gin with Luce still sat at the front of his mind like a petulant child refusing to move, and Simon’s stomach remembered clearly how much he’d abused it, too. A reflexive wobble in his throat made him think he might be sick, but nothing more came than him swallowing it down like something he could expunge the next time he went to the loo.

“Brilliant. And what _exactly_ are you doing?” He hoped she thought he really was excited about drinking gin. The sad part was she could drink him under the table and then some.

‘Idiot’ was written over her face in giant letters.

“Cleaning. Did you know you’d got dried semen crusted on the underside of the coffee table? How did you even get it there?”

“Uh... I’ve no idea. Could’ve been Mick.” Simon shrugged. “You sure it’s semen? And why are you cleaning _my_ room? I usually do that...”

Luce sniffed. “Not very well, if there’s that much crusted under your coffee table. _And_ I chiselled the floor clean round the back of the toilet.”

“Thanks. I think.” Simon wasn’t sure what to make of that. He usually cleaned up his own rooms fairly well - at least the bits that were visible - and the domestics gave them an annual deep-clean, but he wasn't going to argue with her.

“We crashing in mine or yours?”

Considering, Luce chucked the cloth into the washing basket. “Mine. We’ll get high on Flash fumes in here.”

“Alright.”

This would not be like the last time they drank together, Simon promised himself. Not just for sake of James, or his friendship with Luce, but he wasn’t sure he could handle the complications the relationship was beginning to take on with _that_ level of intimacy added to it. He could cuddle her all day and night, and kiss her forehead and temple, and all of those things felt good. Even snogging her was strangely fantastic. Sex was something else entirely.

Simon closed his own door and glanced at Alexander’s before following in Luce’s dancing footsteps. A little devil of a voice in his mind said, ‘ _invite him’_. Though Simon knew that Alexander was a little too... proper... for the sort of party they were about to have. Once the gin started flowing, there was no telling what he may say or attempt. _Liquid courage, indeed._

By the time Simon caught up to her, Luce had already produced the bottle of gin. Beads of water rolled over her fingers and dripped onto the coffee table where two glasses waited. Simon couldn’t help smiling. Hyper and happy with the world, Luce was a wonder – her own sun when clouds surrounded everything. She gave it freely to those she’d chosen to receive it; Simon did whenever he could.

Two generous measures splashed into the tumblers, and she grinned as she raised hers in a celebratory salute. Flavour exploded on his tongue at the first taste. It slid down his throat, hot, even though it’d been in the freezer.

The electronic sound of club music, some song Simon wasn’t familiar with, interrupted the film, and Luce’s mobile on the coffee table flashed. ‘James’ lit up on the screen. The song continued, the hundreds of beats per minute pouring out. Finally, Luce reached for it and answered. Telling James Simon was there with her got a request for him not to ‘be like that; Simon’s my best mate’. Something Simon couldn’t hear, but something James said made her face tighten, and body rigid. For a moment she sat, then got up and went to the bedroom. He shook his head and paused the DVD her hyper highness had managed to put on while he was getting to the room and sitting down.

Guilt stuck in his chest like a brick. James wouldn’t be giving Luce hell if he didn’t think there was competition. It wasn’t fair to Luce. Of course, now having slept with her, there was nothing he could say to convince James that an affair hadn’t been ongoing for years. Once would always equate to the last six years. Simon sighed and watched Luce pace her bedroom, phone still clutched to her ear. Simon could only imagine what idiotic thing James was saying to make her leave the room. Accusations that now weren’t untrue... and for some reason Luce was protecting him and them from the whole thing. Love, he reckoned. What mates did for one another because a misguided moment took what they were and briefly gave a dream life. Simon shoved the thoughts aside; dwelling on it went nowhere.

Not long after moments of hushed words, Luce emerged and set her mobile on the table a little too quickly.

Simon opened his arm, now that Luce had hung up. “The torrid affair continues, eh?” The one between them, that happened only once, because he’d been drunk, selfish... stupid, even.

“Shut up; it’s not funny.” Luce wrapped herself under Simon’s arm like he was a blanket and settled in. “He’s such a prat sometimes. It’s not like you’re even straight. I could understand it better if you weren’t all gay.”

Simon shrugged. “I don’t understand, either, love. And I wasn’t saying it was funny... just... I mean, we did shag, and when he finds out, he’ll think we have been all along.”

“Once, and you weren’t exactly crazy about it. Anyway, I’m not telling him.”

Once... the numbers didn’t add up in his memory. “Thought it was twice and you sucking me off...”

Luce poked him in the chest hard – it smarted still from the last time, proving her infinite ability to hit the same spot.

“ _One_ _night_. And you still weren’t wild about it.”

“It’s not personal, love.” But that still didn’t make Simon feel better, and it certainly couldn’t make Luce feel better. She wasn’t used to men not wanting her. And her not telling James about that one night... Simon didn’t want to think about what would happen. “Fine, I won’t bring it up again.”

Luce shrugged. “I don’t care. You can if you like. The point was that it’s not like we have an extensive history of marathon shagging sessions, which is what James seems to think, and I seriously don’t get why because you’re completely gay and I’m completely female.”

Simon nudged her gently. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

"I happen to like being female, you arse.”

“Mm. Okay, seriously, let’s just drop it.”

She sniffed, which he took as wordless assent, and cradled her empty glass, settling against him like a contented cat. It was always easy to be with Luce like this; a couple that wasn’t a couple, watching a film and enjoying each other’s company. They would make the same jokes, and laugh the same laughs, and swill gin until they were pissed and then Simon would wrap her up and they would go to sleep.

The comfortable normality of it soothed tension and worry away as gently as ice melting in a glass of water.

\+ + +

Electronic dance music blared in Simon’s ear. He reached for the bedside table, pushing things aside as he groped for the source of the racket. Vibrations met his fingertips, and he clamped his hand around the phone.

“Hello?”

“Simon. May I speak to Lucy?”

It took a moment for the voice to register and what the bloke said to make sense. James. He didn’t sound happy. He would probably have preferred his call to go unanswered than to have discovered that his fiancée was still with a man he disliked and distrusted at stupid o' clock in the morning. Simon had been there long before James, though.

Syllable by syllable, the words took shape and Simon formulated a reply that didn’t consist of ‘fuck off’.

“Yeah, sorry. Thought that was my mobile. Let me wake her up.” The tones on his mobile changed so much that he couldn’t distinguish his from hers any more. All traces of Kaiser Chiefs seemed to have disappeared with some techno-dance tune. Knowing her, she’d just incorporated the music into whatever dream she was having. At the best of times, Luce clung to sleep like a limpet; at the worst, she snapped awake and into overdrive, moving around the room like a resentful tornado, as if every moment of wakefulness was a personal insult. This time, she woke slowly. Lots of nudging and name calling later, Simon finally gave her the mobile and managed to wriggle out of bed, despite Luce’s leg wrapped around his, her heel digging into his shin.

Simon yawned and got up, leaving Luce to groan at her phone. He wanted his run, tea, and a shower; something that didn’t involve him thinking about how James was going to hurt Luce because of him. Or about how Luce hurt James because of him.

With a click, Luce’s door closed and Simon padded down the sunlit corridor to his own room, trying to stretch the kinks out of his back.

Everything seemed more complicated, now. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that when James _did_ find out about him and Luce, there would be hell to pay. Simon was not a violent man by any definition; he and his brothers had been brought up knowing themselves to be big and strong, and therefore careful with others, but something about James - the way he addressed Luce, talked about her, looked at her - made Simon's hands itch. He never commented on it, and he curbed his instinctive reactions firmly. He would not let himself be tempted into lamping the git. It would distress Luce.

James. James was going to be a problem, no matter how much Simon hated to admit it.

Before going into his room, Simon looked at Alexander’s door for a long time. To ask or not to ask... Luce would be along soon to eat, and Alexander hadn’t met the other staff yet. He thought maybe he should wait until at least the food was ready, then he could invite him in. Maybe he’d even invite Jo, if she wasn’t having one of her particularly highly-strung days. Maybe he’d just wait and see what Luce wanted. He knew for certain he wanted Alexander to join them. He could make tea and some jam tarts. He had all sorts of time before anyone else woke up. Knowing Luce, she’d go back to sleep once James was off the phone.

Simon had a plan: run, get started on breakfast, then he’d have Luce ask Jo, and he’d ask Alexander... no way he could go wrong with the simplicity of it.

The day before, he hadn’t had a chance to tell Luce how much fun the tour had been. Alexander had this hidden personality that lit up when he started talking about his own subject, and even though he had stopped himself short, with one of his faintly nervous apologies for ‘droning on’ and boring Simon, Simon had been enthralled. It would have been pointless to deny his attraction; he didn't even attempt it. More than that, though, it was nice to have someone new around, someone who was happy to take him as they found him, without the need for manners and polish.

All through his run, Simon thought about Alexander. The man was interesting, unlike a lot of people; his contrasts made him even more so. There was no easy way to take the measure of a person; judging a book by its cover only gave a sample, not the whole story. Sometimes there was a summary, but Simon wanted to know the full text, to see if this bloke would make a decent mate – or lover, if it came to that – over time. Patience was something Simon had in abundance; it seemed to run bone deep, much like the need to take care of someone – cherish them.

Simon picked up his pace and went straight to his room to shower. After his usual wank, he finished cleaning himself and dressed. It was rare that other staff wanted to use the pool in the mornings. That Alexander actually did made him glad that the girls weren’t allowed out of their dorms until seven thirty.

Alexander was already waiting for Simon when he arrived.

“Eh up.”

“Good morning.” He smiled and looked like he was about to say something about putting Simon to trouble again.

“It’s no trouble, I promise. I'm up anyway, and I have to come down first thing every day to make sure nothing's gone wrong overnight. If you like, I’ll get you a key so you can come whenever you want. Not during the day, though; staff hours are before eight in the morning and after eight at night. ” Alexander looked surprised, but Simon went on. “Sleep alright and that?”

“Yes, very well, thank you.”

Simon led Alexander to the changing room.

This pleased Simon. “Good. After your swim, I’d like you to join me and Luce for breakfast. Jo might come, and all, but I haven’t had a chance to ask her yet.”

There was an inner battle, Simon could tell, but in the end, Alexander surrendered to the invitation, if only to get Simon to stop asking for now. Just in case Alexander had any questions, Simon waited. There were other things to tell him, but Alexander began to undress precisely, folding his shirt and trousers neatly, and placing them on the shelf in the changing room. Simon tried very hard to avert his gaze when Alexander reached his pants, but he couldn’t. A milky landscape stood before him in all its beauty. His clothes didn’t do his body justice. He was lithe and nicely defined. Simon looked away, out of respect, and tried to keep the conversation going. Words fell away as thoughts took over, listening to Alexander change into his trunks. When Simon did look back, he saw skin and a blue strip that didn’t leave much to his imagination.

It took his breath away.

He felt the heat on his ears and said a quick ‘see you at breakfast’. Alexander didn’t seem to notice anything off, and he continued on to the pool. He dove in, sleek and beautiful, slicing the water before coming up for air and settling into a butterfly stroke that scythed through the water in the way that Simon could imagine Alexander's mind scything through the coils of dead languages to get to the meaning behind the words. He wondered what else hid behind the mild-mannered scholarliness that seemed to be Alexander's default setting.

Simon exhaled heavily and headed back to his room to start breakfast. Luce was in there already, curled up on the sofa. She didn’t look happy, but her expression shifted as soon as Simon came in.

Already the day was looking brighter.

Luce chattered away while Simon cooked. He wished he had more work space, but he made do with what was available. Despite his curiosity, he refrained from prying into James’s phone calls. He glanced over when she started rooting under the sofa cushions, searching for one of the many bottles of nail varnish that fed the furniture on a regular basis. She still seemed quite perky, which didn't tell him much in and of itself, but she didn't seem to be straining for it, which did: in this frame of mind, probing questions wouldn't ease her into sharing her problems and easing her mind, but would actively annoy and upset her. One of the earliest rules Simon’s mum had taught him was that you didn’t make girls cry: it just wasn’t cricket. Eventually – inevitably – she would get wound up from holding things in and tell him; he just had to be patient. The good part was that she would at least feel better when she had, and that would be Simon’s opportunity to ask Luce for the hundredth time why James didn’t know the woman he’d asked to marry him better, or seem to trust her. No relationship worked without trust. No one had had to teach Simon that; he had learned it from his own experiences.

Instead of bothering her with things that neither of them wanted to think about, he broached the topic of the start-of-term assembly. Neither of them wanted to go; it had been the same every year as long as he’d been there: the Headmistress would address the families and students and talk about excellence and poise, the new staff would be introduced, and then she’d talk about something else equally boring before they actually had to greet the parents. Simon mostly hated it because he had to wear his school suit; the thing was dreadful and hot and he never could get comfortable in it no matter how well it fitted. His body was not designed for that sort of thing. Breeding and training had made him thirteen and a half stone of muscle and bone that craved exercise; wearing a suit and sitting through assemblies made him feel like a racehorse wrapped up in blankets and bandages and locked in a stable. Luce, Jo and even Dog-Leash had pointed out more than once that he **_looked_** just as uncomfortable as he felt. Alexander, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home in a suit; Simon couldn't even imagine him in jeans or a track suit.

Alexander was tall - perhaps almost as tall as Matt. Simon, at six feet two in his socks, had to look up to both of them, though their builds were completely different. Matt, as befitted a lock forward, had bulk to go with his height, and he was even less comfortable in a suit than Simon himself; according to Jo and Luce, he looked out of place in one, as well: like a big, rough lurcher got up in the ribbons and sparkly collar and silly little jersey of some air-headed socialite's Chihuahua. Formal tailoring just didn't seem to hang right on Holroyd men.

Like the rest of the staff, Simon had originally been required to wear an academic gown over his suit for the start-of-term assembly; when Miss Makinson had retired and he had been promoted to head of department, he had dug his heels in about that, and finally been granted special dispensation to forgo it on the basis that he was _not an academic_. The argument that he should be allowed to wear his school-crested track suit had failed, but he had recognised that he had been pushing his luck on that point, and let it slide: the gown was enough of a victory. While he cooked, he wondered idly how well one would sit on Alexander. _Probably really suit him, with those shoulders and how tall he is._

Simon’s thoughts were cut short by Jo's arrival. Although by no means a frequent visitor, she did seem to appreciate his meals. She had even been known to go so far as to acknowledge that he was a good cook – for a barbarian. Alexander was not long behind her, as primly turned out as ever but slightly damp around the hair. There was no trace of the powerful swimmer or the brilliant intellectual Simon had described to Luce: he seemed to have reverted to his default setting of polite reserve again. He ate little - even less than Jo - for all he seemed genuinely to enjoy it.

Musical French began between Jo and Alexander, the man’s voice driving like a nail into Simon’s bones. Liquid hot, the feeling erupted centrally in his groin, spreading out until he was so hard he was uncomfortable. Knowing no one could see didn’t change how embarrassing it felt to sit at breakfast with the sort of erection that felt like he hadn’t got off in years. Never in his life had he been turned on by someone speaking another language; he’d studied French at school with no problems, then Alexander started twirling his tongue and making his lips round in ways that his tone became more like listening to sex than speech. It was uncomfortable. The desire to get away but stay close weighed heavily in his lap, keeping him firmly planted in his chair. _Please don’t notice._ When they’d met, Simon had known he was in trouble; if he could’ve foreseen this, 'trouble' wouldn’t have been strong enough.

Even Luce joined the conversation, with him left to fend for himself and his libido. He took deep breaths and tried to shove the desire away, but it wouldn’t budge, like a mountain settled in place. Or like Matt, when he dug his heels in on something he knew he was right about and no one wanted to listen. For all he knew, they were talking about travel, or weather, or even his food. This inexplicable desire roaring up at him wasn’t going to make life easy – the man taught **_Latin_** at the school.

Simon hung on every word, even though he couldn’t understand it. He lost himself in it, wondering why attraction had to be so complicated, how this man could make him feel so far removed from himself that he wanted to grab and kiss Alexander right there, even with Jo and Luce looking on.

Simon didn’t move from his seat for a while after Alexander had excused himself to set to work on his classroom. For once, thanks to Jo's lingering, he wasn’t compelled to tell Luce immediately what he felt; she'd probably laugh herself sick anyway, at the irony of the timing. Enough breathing and concentrating on other things - the time he'd walked in on Dan and Maria getting down to business in the pantry, Matt going down on that lass when she was having her period, the sex education talk Luce and the school matron gave every year with the graphic illustrations of menstruation and STDs, the seven times table - proved enough to relieve the ache, and he distracted her with pre-term paperwork before she could start after Jo had left.

The next week was a blur. They didn’t have the same preparations to make as the classroom-based teachers for the new school year, but there was plenty to keep them busy; the list seemed almost endless. He delegated the paperwork to Luce because at least her handwriting was legible and she could spell much better than he could: the Headmistress wouldn’t appreciate their memberships and insurances being rejected because of some stupid mistake on Simon’s part. For him, that left the practical things, and the things that he couldn't delegate. The inter-school sporting events had mostly been scheduled already, because most of them didn’t change, and there were no new schools to add into the various leagues, which he appreciated. Ballet, riding lessons, archery, the girls going for A’ levels in PE, and ones with any medical problems were next on his list for timetable blocking and contingency planning. He reviewed the paperwork carefully from the school secretary regarding the inevitable handful of insect allergies, asthma, and sundry other special circumstances which meant that one or two girls might occasionally have to do some gentle indoor swimming or pilates with a teaching assistant rather than participate in the actual lesson. His last chore was to double-check Luce’s timetable: she covered the specialist sports that, for reasons lost in the mists of history, the school was bound by covenant to offer. Simon had never needed to teach them, which was just as well since he had never been as good with a shotgun as Dan, and he had turned out to be crap at fencing. Miss Makinson had taught those disciplines when Simon had joined the school, and one the several reasons for appointing Luce straight out of university rather than one of the more experienced applicants for the post had been her pedigree as a medal-winning modern pentathlete. Some parents were understandably wary of their daughters wielding firearms, but Simon had been surprised by the number who were willing to pay the extra fees for fencing and equestrianism tuition. Most of them seemed to Simon to view Daventry as a sort of holding bay for girls between birth and marriage into money, like something out of one of the Regency romance novels Maria would never admit to reading. The whole school felt like it was in a bubble, untouched by most of the modern world. Old ways of doing things were alive and well, and the girls seemed oddly content with it.

Simon saw little of Alexander during those hectic days as the school and its staff readied themselves for the coming year: no more than an exchange of quick greetings in passing, or a wave from the other side of the quad. Lacking any plausible excuses to hang around the pool every morning, waiting for him to arrive, Simon unlocked it and carried on with his days and before he knew it, the start-of-term assembly was on them.

\+ + +

Simon headed back to his room after the assembly, pulling off his jacket and loosening his tie. He opened the door to Luce lounging on his sofa, having disposed of her skirt suit and reverted to the usual tennis dress.

“You always leave me alone at those things.”

“I hate them. And you don’t pay me enough to stay for the whole thing.”

"Like they pay me enough to? My salary isn’t that much better than yours.” Simon unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the sofa when he’d slipped the cuffs.

"Better enough,” she said, returning her attention to the TV after a cursory inspection of his chest and abdomen. Given the lack of comment, he inferred that the bruise he had picked up during their self-defence demonstration practice had faded.

“Mm. James is loaded, though. And he’ll take good care of you.”

"I’m not marrying him for his money,” she said crossly.

“I know you’re not.” He was still trying to work out why she **_was_** marrying him.

“Don’t say things like that, then. I don’t want looking after, either.”

“You always say that.” She let him take care of her, though. Even if it was just cooking for her and making sure she was eating more than pizza and ready meals. Those small things counted, no matter what she said.

“I always mean it, too.”

Simon nodded, not entirely believing her. “Drink?”

“Please.”

Simon brought her a cola and had water for himself, then sat down beside her.

“So you’re leaving at the end of the year.”

“I haven’t said that.”

“If you’re getting married, he won’t want you teaching here. Especially not here with me.” Luce said something coarse, and he smiled. “Am I even invited?”

“Of course you are. You’re my best mate. You’d look stupid in a dress, so you can’t be a bridesmaid, though.”

“I don’t want to be.” He chuckled.

She sat in silence for a moment, then began to take on the brooding look that usually meant she had some James-related upset on her mind.

“He’s talking about dresses.” She seemed to take this as an affront; Simon did not follow it up, largely because she had trenchant views on his own sense of fashion.

“Have you set a date?”

“Not yet. Sometime next year, probably. I mean, it’ll be sometime next year, not we'll set the date sometime next year. That'd be stupid.”

Her apparent lack of interest in her own wedding made him want to start digging and finally get to the bottom of the mystery of her relationship with James, but it wasn’t his place: there were some decisions a person had to make on their own. As he saw it, the problem for Luce was whether or not James was worth losing her best mate over - no matter how much he hated to think of it or how quick she was to dismiss the possibility. He sighed.

“I don’t know what I did to him, Luce, but he will make you cut me out of your life as soon as he gets a chance. Same thing Ali’s husband did.”

“I do have my own mind, you know. And I am not Ali. Stop comparing me to her.”

“James hates me.”

“I hate his mother.” She shrugged. “I’ve got to put up with her, so he can put up with you.”

“You hate most mothers.” He wished that he could be more reassured by her belief that it would be so easy, but experience had taught him caution. Her point was fair, though: she was _not_ Ali. Ali had been completely besotted with her husband, and Simon was not the only friend she had allowed to fall away after her marriage; Luce's attachment to James was very obviously something else entirely.

“True.”

“I think you’d have liked mine.”

For the first time since he’d got back to his room, she smiled. “Yeah, probably. Your family’s brilliant.”

Simon beamed back. “Thanks.” He propped his feet up on the coffee table just in time for Luce to lean against him.

“I think I’m secretly your sister, or something.”

“Don’t say that.” It took everything in him not to shudder, thinking about how odd **_that_** would be.

“I sure as fuck don’t belong in my family.” She brooded again for a moment. “I’ve got a sense of humour. I know what actual fun is.”

“And my family is full of men who like right bobby dazzlers who boss them about.”

“Exactly. I was stolen at birth.” For a while she went on about how she couldn’t be the daughter of her parents. Simon only listened with half an ear, being increasingly absorbed in his own thoughts. A holiday at the farm without Luce just wouldn't be the same. She fitted in, even though she didn’t have the same skills as Maria or Simon’s Auntie Rita: she didn’t need to be able to manage the household and produce a constant supply of good food for the shop and the men - and children - who traipsed endlessly in and out of the kitchen; she had other qualities. She was lively and enthusiastic, and it carried over to everyone: his nieces and nephews loved her because she could dance for them and join in with their games, or read stories, or help with their homework; the women liked her for her way with the children, and the men were charmed by her energy and her imperiousness - and her endless legs. She had been absorbed into the family.

Eventually she settled down and stopped claiming to be a Holroyd stolen at birth. Simon started flipping channels to see if there were any friendly pre-season matches on.

“How did Alexander cope with the afternoon?”

Simon reset his brain from the TV. “He was fantastic.”

“Had them all eating out of his hand, did he? Or is that just your dick talking?”

“Luce!”

“What?” Her air of wounded innocence had not deceived him for years, and she knew it; she snickered into his shoulder.

“Sex is brilliant, but that’s not the only thing on my mind. He’s not even gay.”

“Oh, of course he is. My arse and Jo’s chest do nothing for him.”

“He is not.”

“He is, too.”

“The man doesn’t look at anyone unless they’re talking about classics.”

Luce rolled her eyes. “No wonder you have trouble pulling. Talk to him about classics, then!”

He didn’t bother with the argument about it being the keeping, not the pulling. Luce knew; they’d been through it often enough before. Just his physique was enough to attract potential partners – the shallow ones, anyway. He never seemed to come across anyone with a mind to something more lasting. “I don’t know anything about classics. And if he’s a megastar, as you said, anything I say would just sound thick and he’d think I was a complete plank.”

“So **_ask_** him something. Ask him about Perseus, or Troy, or something.”

“To tea. I think he really likes tea.” Simon got up and dug a t-shirt out of his clean clothes and pulled it over his head. Luce immediately slunk into the warm indent he had left in the sofa, heat-seeker that she was.

“Right, fine. And talk about classics.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He nearly saluted, but she was already looking at the TV again.

Simon’s nerves rattled for a moment, but he shook them out and knocked on Alexander's door. There was no answer, but he knocked again, just in case.

“Alexander?”

There was still no response, and he sighed. Maybe Alexander just wasn’t back yet from the assembly. Regardless, Simon wanted his intent known. He returned to his room and dug out a sheet of a paper and a biro, then wrote very carefully, “Tea? Simon”. Satisfied that he’d spelled everything correctly, Simon crossed the hall gain and slid the paper under the door.

When Simon returned, Luce had a wicked expression on her face and Super 15 was on the TV still. “I think you should make a pass at him.”

Simon laughed, planning to. “Mm. Yeah, alright. When he surfaces.”

“He’ll go **_mental_**. He’ll never accuse you of fancying me again. I mean, he’ll still hate you, but he won’t be jealous.”

Simon was confused. _Who are we talking about...?_ “What?” Then what she said slotted into place like a child’s puzzle. “I should’ve known.” He shook his head.

“Well, **_obviously_**. What?”

“James.”

“Who were **_you_** talking about?”

“Alexander.” _Duh._

She rolled her eyes. “Huh. Well, yeah. I mean, obviously you should make a pass at **_him_** , too. You fancy him.”

“I’m not making a pass at James. I’ll hit him back if he hits me.”

“He wouldn’t hit you.” _Aye, that’s all he’s been framing to do since he met me._

 _“_ He’d be too busy running away.” If possible, she seemed to be just starting to warm to this idea. “But he’d get it fixed in his head that you’re after **_him_** , and he’ll stop obsessing.”

Luce knew Simon would do anything for her. He thought about it, knowing if he could make her life a touch easier, he should do it. Then again, if it backfired, hell would come knocking for a lot more than he wanted to pay. Simon disliked him too much to take it seriously. “He’s probably one of the ones who thinks we’re paedos and sick, twisted fucks.”

“No, he thinks you fancy me. That’s the problem. He thinks it’s some cunning, fiendish, long-term scheme to bring me to my knees, or something. It’s bonkers.”

Simon wasn’t even her type. James was truly an idiot, especially if he gave Simon that much credit for hatching the lunatic idea that he’d just been pretending to like cock all those years to get something he’d had already… which had been her on her knees, but not permanently and definitely not as some way to slight him. _Ugh._ Simon wanted to get away from that night like a starving tiger was chasing him.

“Okay, he’s mental.”

“He’s just got a blind-spot.”

“Yeah, and it’s about your height and size.”

Luce smacked his shoulder. It hurt every time she did that, but Simon couldn’t bear to tell her.

“He thinks I’m marvellous.”

“I **_meant_** that anything involving you makes the man mental.”

“Oh. Okay. I take it back.”

She patted his shoulder soothingly. He forgave her and changed the subject, before she could come up with something even madder. “I really hate Super 15. It’s like American football, and I thought you couldn’t get **_worse_** than that.”

“You’re the one who put it on.”

“You find something, then.”

The remote, once in Luce’s hand, tended to follow exactly where her thoughts were. She clicked the numbers and landed on the gay porn channel without fail.

“Luce, my door is open.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Did you think, just maybe, if I got lucky enough, Alexander might come for tea? And that he just might not like to walk in on porn?”

She wrinkled her nose. “He’s a classicist. The ancient Greeks were all at it.” To Simon’s relief she changed the channel. “I like laughing at the crapness.”

“You get off on it. As much as I do because I don’t have anyone to be with.”

“I get off on imagining you doing that stuff.”

“Me?” Simon blinked several times. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Sometimes I imagine you doing it with Matt. Does that make me twisted?”

Disgusted and a bit horrified, Simon looked at her. “Yeah, just a bit. But I love you anyway.”

She beamed, apparently pleased with Simon’s revulsion; he recognised the game, then. “I make you feel all normal and virtuous, don’t I?”

“No, not really.” There had to be **_something_** he could come up with to cap that. His mind raced to identify it.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You have something weirder than incest?”

Not in reality, he didn’t, but an idea was forming, and he grinned. “I have lots of weird thoughts.”

“Just not ones that involve you doing unspeakable things with your brother. Or brothers.”

“You’d be amazed what goes through my mind when I’m running.”

She practically glowed. “Do tell. Because if you can beat a three-way with Matt and Dan, I’ll be stunned.”

“Foursome with you, Matt, and Dan, and me being tied up.”

She laughed as if it were the best joke she'd heard in all her life.

“And then Maria comes in with a rolling pin and smacks Dan on the are and tells him to get on with it.”

“I can actually see that.” Luce snickered.

“Hugely pregnant, as usual.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her _not pregnant_.”

Simon told her a few more outlandish ideas that came to mind: them all dressing him up as a lass, Big Mark having Simon gag him...

“You would not be a pretty girl. Nobody would want you to do that.”

“No, I’m a gorgeous male specimen.”

“And also taking the piss.”

She’d caught him, but it had been worth it. “Come on. It’s fun.” Then he gave in. “Yes, I feel rather normal and virtuous compared to you.”

“Then my work is done.”

They laughed and Simon kissed her temple.

“I was a nice girl until I met you,” she informed him, in defiance of all plausibility.

“Don’t you blame me. I can’t help you fancy the Holroyd men. Does James even have a clue why we’re such good mates?”

“Nah, he just looks at you and sees trouble.”

“Maybe you should tell him the story sometime.”

“None of his business.”

“Alright.”

When Luce started curling up, Simon’s heart sank. He thought the friendship they’d built after her first engagement was worth the mentioning of it, but it still seemed to have the old sting. Luce was protecting herself. Simon pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s the past, love. Leave it there.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Nay, love. I’m sorry I brought it up.” He rested his cheek on her head and stroked her back. “You’re happy now, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Which is all any on us could hope for.”

She sniffed. “Doesn’t mean I want all that raking up, though. I know I can’t change it. I accept that I can’t change it. Just don’t ask me to like it.”

“I had no idea it still hurt so much.” Six years had gone by since then.

“You can’t just turn a feeling off. You can ignore it, and you can even forget about it a lot of the time, but it never actually goes away. And then someone comes and bloody pokes it.”

“I’m sorry, love.” Simon was contrite, but it wasn’t seeming to help at all. “You know I don’t like when you’re unhappy. Or hurting you.”

“I’m not unhappy. I’m not really unhappy. It just... stuff like that takes you by surprise. It’s like sciatica.” She sighed. “It's okay, really. You didn’t mean to.”

“As long as you really do know that.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“No, I am.”

She huffed. “You love me to bits, and you’d rather chew your own balls off than hurt someone you love.”

“Exactly.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into him finally. “And I’ve got James, now, anyway. I wish you liked each other.”

“I wish a lot of things, love. Doesn’t mean they’re framing to happen.”

Luce sighed.

“What?”

“What?”

“You sighed.”

“I’m allowed. You said something melancholy. Sighing in response to something melancholy is allowed.”

“Hrm, okay. Let’s do something. I don’t want to sit here thinking about what I don’t have.”

“We could eat,” Luce said hopefully. She had always been easy to distract and delight with food.

Laughing, Simon asked, “To the pub? Or am I cooking?”

“Your gravy’s miles better.”

Simon smiled and set to his task. Cooking always calmed him, made him feel he had a purpose: in this case, taking care of Luce. They ate when it was ready and went back to the sofa afterward. For a while, they watched TV, Luce tucked comfortably under his arm. James's regular call interrupted the program, and Luce bounced out of the room to answer it, apparently back to her usual perky self. At least James should be pleased that she wasn’t sitting in Simon’s arms while they talked. She would eventually treacle back, take up her station again, and stop for however long Simon let her.

While she was gone, he let his mind wander over the day. The assembly had gone well, even if it had seemed like Dog-Leash had gone, twenty minutes at least, longer than last year. Alexander had looked fantastic despite the appallingly coloured robes and hat his university had seen fit to inflict on its doctoral graduates. The inner child in Simon had wanted to laugh, since they were the most insane he’d ever seen, but somehow he had quieted it – the kick to the ankle from Luce had probably helped.

A brisk knock at the door derailed Simon's train of thought. Answering it, he beamed: Alexander stood there, with the note in his hand.

“I presume that this was an invitation rather than a request, but I should be glad if you would join me.”

He couldn't help laughing. It was nice to hear the light teasing in Alexander’s tone – a new one to catalogue in Simon’s mind to remember. It was the first time since they’d met that Alexander had been actively friendly rather than just courteous. Tingles broke out over his skin at the thought that Alexander was also inviting Simon to **_his_** room. Not that it meant anything was going to happen. “Yeah, that’d be brilliant. I wasn’t sure if you were there earlier; Luce thought you were, but you didn’t answer when I knocked, so I just left a note.”

Alexander smiled, starting for his own room. Simon followed without thought, as though attached by a string. “My apologies; I was listening to some music with headphones. I don’t share Lucy’s taste.”

Simon chuckled. “Not many do. I think she’s forgotten it’s not just us three on this wing any more.” Things made a little more sense to Simon, now: when Luce had left the assembly, she had likely gone to her own room to change, and turned up some high tempo music, singing along with it at the top of her lungs as she usually did. It wasn't thoughtlessness so much as enthusiasm; most people found the joie de vivre endearing, once they got used to it - even Dog-Leash - but it did take some getting used to. Alexander must have got back while she was in full flow, before she’d let herself into Simon’s room.

Alexander inclined his head, and ushered Simon in. It looked completely different inside; almost completely unrecognisable as the room Simon had last seen full of boxes. More bookcases lined the wall and an impressive personal library surrounded the room like a shield. The furniture wasn’t new, but the well polished wood gleamed in the lamplight: it had obviously been carefully looked after, and something about it - the deep tones, the air of academia, the traditional comfort - fitted Alexander like one of his suits.

“You’ve settled in nicely.”

“Yes, thank you. I had some of my things brought from home.” He grimaced slightly. “I just can’t seem to adjust to a modern desk.”

Simon smiled. Alexander fascinated him more and more. To him, a desk was a desk, and sometimes even a table or chair - or wall - if it had a flat enough surface for him to write whatever was needed. “How did you like the assembly?”

Alexander regarded him amusedly as he made his way across to the kitchenette. “I don’t think the idea is that one should ‘like’ these things. Though I have sat through considerably worse.”

Simon was sure he had. He watched Alexander begin to assemble the equipment for a formal tea - pot, milk jug, cups and saucers, sugar basin, sugar tongs, teaspoons, side plates - on a tray; it was like something out of a period drama. There was one ingredient missing, though. “D’you like jam tarts?”

Alexander didn’t even blink at the change of subject. “What sort of jam?”

“Strawberry. Homemade.”

“Lovely.” Alexander smiled. “My aunt’s cook used to make them with damson or gooseberry,” he added, with a droll grimace which suggested that he hadn't been impressed.

“Aye? We always use strawberry; Auntie Rita makes it. It's one of the farm shop specialities." Alexander registered interest, but Simon had already risen and started towards the door. "Hold on a tick; I did some baking yesterday, and I reckon tarts would go down a treat with the tea." Before Alexander could politely demur, Simon went to grab the tin of tarts.

Excitement and nervousness flooded him. The tart tin felt slippery, escaping his grasp the first time he picked it up. _You’re not a bloody teenager, Simon; get it together!_ He tightened his grip and left.

“The parents seemed to like you. Can’t say I blame them, really,” Simon said when he returned, forestalling the inevitable comment on his kindness and Alexander's reluctance to impose.

The gambit worked: Alexander took on the bashfully hopeful air he'd had the first day they'd met and spoken. “Did you think so? I had a distinct sense that they thought I was too young.”

“I think maybe they thought ‘too handsome’,” Simon said, chuckling. The man really had no idea how good-looking he was. “I was watching.”

Alexander coloured slightly. “I can’t imagine that that was the problem.”

As far as Simon was concerned, there wasn’t one. “Alexander, please. You’re good-looking and very educated bloke. You can’t blame them for wondering what brings you to a little school like Daventry in the middle of nowhere when you could be doing something else. I wouldn’t worry about the parents, honestly. They seemed impressed. I can’t blame them. Dog— The Headmistress was pleased, too. It’s difficult to get that much of a smile out of her about anything.”

Alexander cleared his throat. “At any rate, it seemed to go well enough. And term begins on Monday; I’m rather looking forward to it.”

“That’s good to hear.” Alexander finished with the tea and brought it to the living area. He kindly poured a cup for Simon, and Simon opened the tin of tarts to offer them to Alexander, which he accepted.

Simon seemed to have encouraged him because Alexander began talking about his syllabus, which meant nothing to Simon on an academic level. _Oh, God, now he really is going to think I’m a plank._

Simon asked, “Could you tell me a little more about that?”

“Pro Roscio?” Alexander perked up, like he was pleased that someone was taking an interest.

“I barely made it through French, come to that.” It was a bit embarrassing to admit, but Simon never promised intelligence to anyone.

“You may have found that a grounding in Latin would have facilitated it.” From there, Alexander began talking about the romance languages and how they stemmed from Latin. At one point, he even stopped speaking in English, which caught Simon off guard, but he didn’t say anything. The reaction, the way the words ran like fire in his blood, scared him a bit. No one had ever had that much... command – knowingly or otherwise – over his arousal.

“Aye, probably, but being dyslexic didn’t help much with schooling. Kind of caught it late.” Alexander seemed interested, so Simon carried on. “It’s okay, though. I’m much better at being physical.”

“I imagine that’s an advantage in a teacher of physical education.”

Simon smiled, glad that Alexander was comfortable enough with him to make an actual joke. “Yeah, I reckon. I’d been looking forward to playing rugby, but I changed my mind. I didn’t want to travel so much.”

“You had intended to play professionally?”

“I’d been given a trial with my brother’s team. He thinks it was stupid to turn it down.”

“One must make one’s own decisions.”

Questions raced through his thoughts: curiosity if Alexander had been faced with similar decisions. It was true enough that Simon got the feeling of wisdom in the statement. “Aye. How’d you get involved in classics?”

“I studied at school, and proved to be rather gifted.” He was very matter-of-fact with the response, like it wasn’t a big deal. A gift like that should be a big deal, though. Simon wondered if this was the same humility he’d seen already or something else.

“It would seem so.” Simon wondered if Alexander had ever taken the time to do anything for himself that didn’t involve academic achievement. He sipped his tea, nothing like what he made for himself, or what they drank on the farm: a chewy mass that most people couldn’t swallow. Simon watched Alexander for a moment, his manners, his movements and the nagging question about sexuality popped into his mind like an unwanted house guest. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” Out the question poured, no thinking, just feeling.

“Not at all.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

It was like someone had switched off the mains; Alexander’s expression went completely blank. Then his face went very pink. “Ah, no. No, I am not.” He cleared his throat.

“Would it be too bold to ask if you’d like to go out sometime?”

Alexander blinked several times. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’d like to take you on a date.”

It seemed like Simon had picked up Alexander’s world and shaken it. He drank his tea, but there was nothing smooth or elegant in the movement. He seemed nervous, and Simon hoped it was the question, not him, that caused the reaction.

“But we barely know one another.”

Considering that dating tended to be how people got to know one another, Simon was a slightly puzzled, but he didn’t press. Having made Alexander uncomfortable already didn’t sit well with him – he wanted to fix it even though he had none of the tools to do it.

Simon nodded. “Sorry.”

“Please don’t apologise. It’s very, ah, kind of you; I was simply—”

“No, it’s alright. You’re right. It’s too soon.” Alexander looked relieved, but Simon was disappointed. Luce had told him many times that he had the tact of a hand grenade. _Cue explosion._ Simon believed in going after the things he wanted or had an interest in; he had thought that he had outgrown his tendency to go after it like a bull at a gate, but it seemed not. When Alexander offered him more tea, Simon paused to debate whether it was a good idea or not.

“Okay.”

They sat in silence through the rest of the tea. Simon chose not to alarm Alexander further by not speaking and instead found that words weren’t really required. He was comfortable. He knew, though, that once he finished that cup, he should leave. Mostly out of embarrassment and disappointment, but he didn’t want to say anything else that might make Alexander uncomfortable with him.

“Please keep the rest of the tarts. If you’d like more, just let me know. I make them.”

“I shouldn’t wish to put you to any trouble.”

“It’s not any trouble. I promise.”

“You are very kind.”

At that moment, Simon disagreed. He finished his tea, then cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll leave to your evening. I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important. I know you’ve got a lot to do before Monday.”

“Not at all; I think I am well in hand.”

Simon smiled. “That’s good to hear. Shall I open the pool in the morning?”

“Yes, please.”

“Will do.” Alexander smiled. Simon didn’t want to go yet.

“See you then.”

“I can swim in the lake if it’s any trouble.”

“No, not at all. The Headmistress would have heart failure.” Simon imagined comments about negligence and liability. The pool temperature was regulated, unlike the lake, which was anywhere between frozen and freezing at any given time of the year. There was no way Simon would put anyone through that. Because the pool was his responsibility, he’d get reproached quite harshly for not thinking. "I only have a late lie-in on Sunday, so I’m up anyway. It’s not a problem to open it up. Please stop worrying so much about putting me to trouble. It’s my pleasure. **I’m offering** , so it’s not a problem.” He smiled. “I promise.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Gosh.” To Simon’s surprise, Alexander smiled shyly. “Then I shall simply thank you.”

Simon nodded. “You’re welcome. Good night, Alexander. Thank you for the tea.”

Back in his own room, Simon lay down on his sofa with the TV on, not really watching it but trying to avoid getting maudlin. Alexander hadn’t completely rejected him, that was the main thing. He hadn't been repulsed, or offended. He hadn't even denied any interest in Simon, so maybe Luce and Jo were right after all. They would be all kinds of smug about it if they were. He just had to be patient. Being that bold had been out of character for him. The pushing and trying to jump ahead in any sort of relationship would go nowhere, and fast. He didn’t know what was wrong and why he was acting this way. One man, who he barely knew, shouldn’t be able do this much to him in less than a week; it wasn’t possible. Common sense told him that, but his unfailing ability to put his arse over end didn’t help.

“Eh up,” he said in greeting when Luce sashayed in. She beamed. “Good talk with James?”

“Yeah. He apologised. And I graciously forgave him because I’m like that.”

“Nice.” Simon opened his arm, and she joined him, her body fitting snugly against his. He wondered what Alexander’s would feel like.

“Where did you disappear to?”

“Tea in Alexander’s room.”

“Yeah? Cool.”

“Mm. Apart from making an idiot of myself. At least he seems to like my jam tarts.”

“Of course he does. Your jam tarts are epic.”

“Yeah, it was going well, and then I went and asked him on a date.”

Even though he couldn’t see it, he **_knew_** Luce had rolled her eyes. “You should probably get to know him a bit first.”

“I thought that’s what dating was for, but I reckon not.”

Like there was a punch line Simon had missed, Luce laughed. “Some people like to have a platonic relationship before a romantic one.”

“Mm. He’s not seeing anyone; I did find that out. And he said the same thing, basically.” He sighed. “I just get ahead of myself sometimes.”

“It’s part of your charm.” He heard the smile in her tone.

“I doubt he agrees at the moment. He was in there earlier, by the way. He just had headphones on. Seems he’s not keen on Cascada at full volume.” Just over her shoulder, Simon watched Luce wrinkle her nose. “He doesn’t have a TV, and his furniture is probably as old as Granddad Simon, if not older.”

“Older, probably. He looks that type. I bet he’s loaded.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s just things from his Aunt’s house. Anyway, who cares if he’s loaded? He seems nice.” That was rare enough in people.

“I wasn’t saying he didn’t.”

She hummed and settled in.

“I’m glad you and James sorted things.”

“We always do.”

At what cost, he wondered, words failing to come. They always did when James was the topic in one way or another: either he said something rude about him or he said nothing at all. He commented, “You fight more than any couple I know.”

“You don’t know many couples.”

“My family.”

“They’re different.”

“How?” he asked: they all had their ups and downs like any other couples and families. \

“They’re Holroyds.”

“Are not. Not all on ’em. There’s Ramsdens, Barracloughs, Brays, Weavers, Haighs, Earnshaws and Frasers.”

“You know what I meant.” He could hear the ‘idiot’ in there, with an eye roll.

“They’re not all the same. You make us sound like clones.”

“Hardly.”

“Those are the couples I know. They Sort Things Out Quickly,” Simon said proudly.

“They’re usually no more than six feet apart.”

“Maybe the distance is part of what keeps you two arguing?” Simon suggested.

Her face squinched. “Probably.”

“Still want me to come on to him?”

“Nah, I’ll let you off.”

“Good. I do think he’d lamp me.” Though it would give Simon an excuse to hit him back… which was almost tempting.

“I don’t.”

“Hah. Let’s get pissed and I’ll snog him.”

“That would be hot.”

Simon laughed. “That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?”

“No, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“We should do it. Maybe it’ll lighten the mood.”

“He’d have a panic attack.”

“Better not, then. I’m not a complete arse.”

“You do have a good one, though.” Simon smiled. “Oh, I owe you a hundred and twenty five quid.”

“Why?” He didn’t think she’d borrowed any money…

“Torso of the month.”

“You’re submitting photos of me again?” If it weren’t so funny, he’d make her stop.

“You keep winning.” She sounded like a proud parent – or agent.

“What’s next? Playgirl?”

“Do you think they pay better?” Excitement radiated from her tone. He wondered if perhaps he ought to be paying her to pimp him out more. It might even make him a better living than teaching. He laughed.

“I have no idea.”

“I’ll find out.”

“This is your idea…”

“You suggested it.”

“I’m just wondering how far you’re willing to go.”

“I’m not the one with the collection of photos of you wanking.”

 _Oh, bugger. She always brings that up like it’s something I’d planned._ “Uh, I didn’t take those. And I was pissed.”

“No, but you didn’t burn them, either.”

No, he hadn’t burned them; he hadn’t done **_anything_** with them, actually. They sat in a box under his bed. “Have fun with them,” he said. He had no use for them and no reason to keep them. It was just something Mick had done once before he had shown his true colours about the man he was.

Luce beamed. “See, I love that about you. You’re totally fine with being a sex object.”

He shrugged. “It’s not like it’s actually **_me_**. It’s just a photo.” To him, there wasn’t really anything funny about what he’d said, but Luce burst out laughing anyway. “Anyway, do whatever you want with them. You know where they are. It’s nice having a little extra money. Keep your half for doing all the work.”

“If I got that boob job, you could flog pictures of me, too.”

Simon didn’t sigh. “Luce, don’t get a boob job. You’re perfect the way you are.”

She radiated happiness like all her birthdays had come at once. He wondered if James had ever told her that.

“Just not very soft porn-worthy.”

“No; hardcore, definitely.” Judging from her reaction, this was the finest compliment Luce had ever received. He smiled. “It’s the blowjobs, and you’ll do anal.”

She snorted.

“No, you give better head than most blokes do.”

“I should hope so.”

“You could be a porn star. You’re the Lolita type – your body and that. All sorts of blokes would want to watch you fuck some sod.”

“I’m not a Lolita.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m five foot eleven.” _Yeah, in the same way that I’m only six feet tall to you._ He shook his head amusedly, and she shook hers back indignantly. “You can’t be a Lolita if you have to look down to see your partner’s face.”

“Yeah, but they can make you look shorter on film.”

“I don’t want to look shorter.”

“And they’d get the big blokes for you: units like Matt and Rob.” She shook her head again. _We talk about sex like we’re virgins or something._ He laughed. “Why the hell do we talk about sex so much? I’m not getting any. You’re not either, but at least you have a fiancé.”

“That’s why we talk about it.” Her tone suggested that this should have been obvious.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know about you, but I get tired of wanking. I want to touch someone. I get to touch you, but it’s not the same.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I’m turning you on or something, and then you’re engaged. It’s all fucked up.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Sorry. Just thinking about weird stuff.”

“Again?”

“You know I was just taking the piss earlier.”

“Which bit?”

“All of it – my brothers and that.”

She was warm under his hands. Soft, too. He liked that she let him touch her skin, just for that brief feeling of connection with someone, someone he loved. He closed his eyes and let his hand wander from her abs, across her ribs and across to her sternum in slow strokes.

“See, if I had that boob job, you’d notice when you were touching them.”

He stopped immediately. “Sorry. And you don’t need a bloody boob job.”

“I’m not talking about massive great airbags.”

“You still don’t need one.” If she carried on arguing, he'd trot out the thing about being a role model for the girls and not encouraging them to develop body image issues. Not that he thought she was actually completely serious anyway.

There was a lull as she settled down again, warm and drowsy as a contented cat. His mind wandered back over the turns the conversation had taken and the evening's events, and he found himself dwelling on a question that he wasn't sure he could answer on his own.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You don’t normally ask that.”

“’Cause it’s a serious question.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I reserve the right to give you a silly answer.”

“You always do.” He paused for a moment. He felt like a complete knob even asking, but he needed to hear it from someone, and his Mum wasn’t alive to talk to about these things. “Do you think I want too much in a relationship?”

“No.” She said it promptly and as firm as a rock.

“What’s wrong with me that I can’t find a decent bloke, then?”

“You’re living in a girls’ school at the arse end of the back of beyond. It isn’t exactly a wide social circle. So in terms of what’s wrong with you, basically, your idea of a good place to pull is crap.”

“Yeah. I know I’m not the only gay man in Yorkshire. I go home often enough.”

“And you had boyfriends at university. But you’ve been here since you were twenty one. Most people don’t look for a long-distance relationship. You pull someone in Yorkshire, they’re going to be thinking of a one-ff shag.” It was a fair point.

“And I don’t want that.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not saying you do want that. That’s a really bad habit.”

“Yeah, and stupid. I’d drive to the city to do it, if that’s what I wanted.”

She tutted. “No, responding to the bit that is **_so_** not the point is the bad habit.”

“Oh. I’m trying.”

She sniffed imperiously. “At the best of times.”

She was teasing him again, and directing ‘serious’ away from ‘likely to become maudlin’ before the despondency could actually set in. “You stopping with me tonight?”

“Yeah. You’re warm.”

“Maybe I should give James some tips.”

“He’s in Zurich.”

“That’s okay.”

She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, the point was that there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just in a really stupid place to be trying to find The One.”

Simon hummed. There were other options; the only thing really keeping him at Daventry was Luce. When she was gone, it’d be a little less lively – just not the same in a way he couldn't articulate. “A bit depressing. Makes me wonder if I should leave and find another post in London, when you’ve gone. Or Cardiff, or Leeds, or Edinburgh, or anywhere with a population of more than six hundred, including dogs and horses.”

“But you like it here.”

“Only ’cause of you, love. But at least Matt’s in London.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, and it’s a pretty active scene.

“I’m not going to Manchester.”

“I don’t blame you.” Like a cat who’d made her bed, she nestled against him. “It’s not like he actually turned you down. I mean, he didn’t use the words ‘I’m not interested’.”

“Nay. Not putting all of my eggs in one basket, though.”

She smiled. “Don’t dismiss it just because you startled him.”

“I’m not. When we know each other a bit better, I’ll ask again.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
No-one wanted to be the bearer of bad news, least of all Simon. With Matt coming up that afternoon for the weekend, though, Simon couldn’t put off telling him about the engagement. From the moment Matt had met Luce he’d been in love; it was just a shame that Luce hadn’t been equally struck. She liked Matt, enough to tell him plainly and early that they were never going to be a thing, and she cared about him enough to avoid mixed messages like helping herself to his clothes and his body heat; she was good to him and for him, and Simon had believed almost from the beginning that they could have been amazing together. He sighed and began typing carefully on his phone’s tiny screen. Luce has got engaged to James. He tapped send and watched the little bar progress until it whooped and there was nothing he could do to take it back. Matt wouldn’t reply. He’d probably find some sort of heavy lifting to do for a while and find a way to be happy for her. It would be easier for him than Simon was finding it for himself: Matt and James hadn’t actually met, and Simon didn’t talk about him – which was probably just as well, since there was no way in hell that Matt would in any way approve of the nit.

Having done his fraternal duty, Simon headed to the village to buy some beer and more food; Simon and Luce ate enough on their own, but Matt could eat twice as much and still want more. It was his last resting weekend before beginning training for the team again; one last hurrah of beer and chips and everything else that the nutritionists took off the menu seemed appropriate. There never was enough time for them to play video games and drink and talk about rugby, and let Luce boss them around. Simon planned to make it brilliant; it always was.  
  
***  
  
Simon glowered at the hot-pink alarm clock on the bedside table, wondering blearily how the tractor had got in. Three in the morning stared back at him like a bad day and he realised that the noise was Matt snoring on the floor of the sitting room. Luce kicked his shin and grumbled something about Disneyland Paris. Simon grunted. How’n th’ hell doe’she kick the same fucking spot every time? Inevitably, she wrapped herself up in him even further as soon as he moved, like he was the blanket. He was warm, that was always what she said when he asked, but he was hot and had a thunder storm on his sitting room floor. He closed his eyes, wrapping Luce back up; she hummed happily. A haze crept over him, heat and the smell of beer, Luce against him, dragging him back into sleep.

At a more reasonable hour, he untangled himself from Luce and headed to the loo. Matt had managed to take up half the floor, stretched out and still snoring. Beer cans and bottles were scattered around the coffee table and TV unit in uneven clumps and stacks. Simon sighed and decided he would clean it up after he had a shower and a wank. If he got lucky, Matt wouldn’t wake up and come in, or Luce. She still watched sometimes, but had at least stopped making helpful suggestions. She liked to watch, always had. Simon managed to ignore Matt most of the time, unless he had to take a shit; that was a completely different sort of revulsion.

Simon was relieved when he had the shower to himself, managing to clean up and wrap his towel around his waist, without company. He cleaned his teeth, then lathered shaving cream in his hands, rubbing it over his stubble. A few swipes down his cheek and Luce wandered through the open door like a zombie and plonked down on the toilet. She yawned, looking at him: her greeting for the time being.

“Sleep alright?”

“Mm.”

Simon carried on shaving. “Dreams about Disneyland?”

“I don’t remember.” She yawned again. “Do you have any more of those sausages?”

“Aye, Matt brought some.”

“Brilliant.”

“You always perk up around food,” Simon said with amusement. She was no better than him or Matt.

“Food is good.”

“Mm. You seen Alexander this week?” Simon tilted his head back and looked at himself in the mirror. Alexander hadn’t been at dinner last night in the dining hall, but he had been every other night that week. Simon, out of respect for the Headmistress, dined on a light meal with the students and staff as head of his department during the first week of term. Then he’d come back to his own room and make a proper meal that didn’t consist of whatever oppressively gourmet dish the kitchen decided to feed everyone. The school’s garden at least was useful for him sometimes: he could get some fresh veg if he didn’t have it to hand already. The gardeners and cooks reckoned that the odd cauliflower or bunch of carrots was more than a fair trade for the help with digging over, planting and harvesting, and the school couldn’t go through all of it, anyway. “I think I’m going to go check on him.”

“Matt?”

“No, Alexander.”

“Why?”

“He’s been at dinner all week, but he wasn’t last night. Then I overheard some of the girls talking about how snappy he was being with them.” Before breakfast... too early. Simon washed the shaving cream off his face and patted it dry. The bottle of Cool Water that Luce had given him had become his favourite over the years: he splashed some on and made up his mind. “I’ll go after breakfast.” He made sure his face was dry and looked at Luce. “Sorry. I’ll get out of your way, now.”  
  
She didn’t respond – then again, Luce could sleep for England and somewhere in her still half-asleep brain, was probably contemplating the warmest spot to settle into for the duration. He began pulling out eggs, bacon, sausages, beans – a proper breakfast – and heard the shower start. Before long, she came out of the bathroom in one of his t-shirts from the washing basket and he shook his head, chuckling. It wasn’t like there weren’t actual clean t-shirts in his room, or even her own clothes. It was part of her charm, the ritual theft of clothing still warm or recently worn.  
  
“Fancy waking Matt up? That snoring is seriously getting old.”

She ambled across to where Matt lay in a large, moored ship sort of way, and began to poke him until he grabbed hold of her ankle and rumbled a lot. She giggled and freed herself from his huge paw of a hand and joined Simon as Matt began to heave himself to his feet.

“Maybe he just thinks they’re flighty,” Luce said, as though there hadn’t been a break in the conversation about Alexander. Sliding past Simon in his place at the hob, she reached for her cherished cafetiere. Unlike everyone else Simon knew, Luce preferred coffee to tea; he kept a bag of the ground stuff in his freezer, and knew better than to defile her Felicity Wishes mug with anything else.

“Maybe.”

“I mean, let’s face it: most of them are. None them’s exactly super-brain material.”

“Well, no, but I don’t really see him as someone who treats his students like that, even if they are flighty.”

“What, just getting a bit snappy? Have you never walked past Miss Drage’s classroom when the windows are open?”

“I reckon not.” Self-preservation kept him close to his comfort zones.

“Huh.”

Simon scraped the eggs in the pan before they burnt.

“I tend to stay out of other teachers’ classrooms; they stay out of mine, that way.”

“Who’s talking about going in?” She gave him an accusatory look; her tone was the same when she said,

“Are you not listening to me again?”

“No, I’m listening. I don’t go through the building for a reason, and I walk around the back for a reason.”  
  
“So you don’t have to listen to the other teachers barking at the girls?”  
  
“Aye. I don’t think that’s really the way to get their attention.”  
  
“I mean, I don’t just randomly wander into classrooms. That’d be rude, and then they’d bark at me.  
  
Simon chuckled. “Aye.”  
  
“But I do walk round the outside of the school sometimes. It’s not like these women are exactly whispering shrinking violets.”  
  
Now that he thought about it, a lot of the teachers were like the women in his family. “Mm. I know. Like I said, I don’t really agree with it. Ever notice how they stop listening and get worse with that sort of attitude?”  
  
“Not really. You could hear a pin drop in a lot of those classrooms most of the time.”  
  
Singing filled the room, interrupting Simon’s train of thought, Matt’s deep voice carrying from the bathroom where he had taken himself for his morning ablutions. Simon chuckled and listened. He was the only one who couldn’t carry a tune in a kit bag; Matt and Dan were both decent singers. Luce joined in with the song, some folk thing that Simon barely remembered the words for. It didn’t escape Simon that more words came out of Matt when he was singing than in a year of conversations combined.  
  
Matt stopped, and Luce did, too. Simon smiled, wishing again that his brother’s attraction and attachment had been reciprocated. If it had been, if Luce were marrying Matt instead of James, she’d get to stop at the school, because Matt would leave her under Simon’s safe supervision and let her stop where she wanted to be, where she was happy. Singing started again from Matt, closely followed by Luce, who leaned against the fridge with a dreamy look on her face, lit up from the inside by simple pleasure, coffee clasped loosely in her hands. Simon didn’t understand why she didn’t fancy him: everything about them seemed to be compatible. Once upon a time, she’d have grabbed him with both hands purely to spite her family – Simon had only met her mother once, but he could imagine the woman’s expression if her wayward daughter took home a rough, burly farm-lad-turned-rugby-player with no connections, title, or family money. Simon wouldn’t wish a discontented marriage on anyone, though. He shied away from thinking too hard about the sort of marriage she would have with James.

The song carried on long enough that the water must have gone cold, but they seemed to be having fun with their duet.

“Alright, Pavarotti, breakfast’s ready,” Simon shouted.

Luce stopped singing and chuckled into her coffee.

Simon turned back to the food. Something thwapped him on the back of the head at painful speed and thudded on the floor like one of Matt’s steps. He looked at the towel that had been chucked at his head and cussed goodnaturedly under his breath.  
  
“Wanker,” Simon said lightly.

Matt rumbled amiably, lumbering up behind Simon. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the salt and something else in Matt’s hand. “Oi! Your own plate. Get out of the kitchen.”

“Bossy little bugger.”

“Not everybody likes as much salt as you do.” Simon stood firmly.

“Not everybody like it as bland as you do.”

“You can muck about with your own plate,” Simon said, more gutturally than he’d meant.

“I love the jostling for position!” Luce added brightly. “It’s like watching a couple of lions trying to work out which is the alpha.”  
  
Simon looked at Luce flatly.

“Neither of you ever marks territory, though. Which is probably just as well. The domestics would royally kick off.”

“Mm. That and he knows this is my room. I don’t muck around in his kitchen.” Simon took everything to the table in a few rounds and sat down. Luce’s face had taken on a expression he’d only ever remembered seeing once. It had been the time she had walked into Simon’s room when he and Mick had been shagging. Simon hadn’t noticed her immediately, but he didn’t have to: he was just as bad as Luce. He liked to be watched as much as she did. He could see the wheels turning toward something that was better left unspoken – and probably better left un-thought, if truth be told. Whatever she was thinking, it had made her eyes go glassy, distant, as though in another time and place or reality; quite a lot could be going on. It was probably something to do with Simon shagging in the kitchen, or even worse, something to do with Matt and Simon shagging each other in the kitchen. That sort of thinking needed to be put to rest – quickly.

“Luce, get your mind out of the gutter.”

She huffed. “My fiancé is in Zurich.”

Simon wanted to point out that that didn’t mean it was appropriate to have insanely twisted thoughts and wear them written all over her face, but restrained himself: he would be the last person to chide someone for having a visual of two hot blokes together, and if he tried hard enough to be objective, he could acknowledge that he could see how people would say that Matt fell into that category, but still… Matt was his brother.  
  
Matt’s forehead wrinkled in honest confusion.  
  
Simon shook his head. “You really don’t want to know.” He started eating and watched Matt sour his eggs with more salt and pepper than anyone should ever inhale. He sighed inwardly.

Magical being that she was, Luce started talking about rugby, which drew Matt into an actual conversation that consisted of more than rumbles and grunts. It was just the normal talk of two enthusiasts sharing their love of a thing. Though he couldn’t take his eyes off her, Luce ate and carried on wolfing down her meal as though it was the only one she was bound to have for a week, not even a hint of the flirt about her. She could turn that charm on and off as she liked, and it wasn’t on now: she was having a simple conversation with a mate. It was nice to listen to Matt talk, for once. Luce kept him going like the coal for a train, and he chugged along, sometimes ponderously, eventually reaching the words that were on their shelves, just waiting to be pulled down. Matt thought he had nothing to contribute, but he always did, especially about rugby. The dark surface of the table slowly became visible as food disappeared into stomachs. Simon listened, but he had other things on his mind, things he had to do alone.

Leaving them to their relatively spirited debate about the merits of sequential binding in a scrum, Simon headed across the hall. He knocked on Number Seven; the door was slightly ajar and swung wider at his touch. There was no answer.

Simon frowned and pushed it open. “Alexander?” He looked round and saw the other man slumped at an odd angle in his chair, with a book face-down on the floor, its pages crumpled where it had fallen. Simon approached Alexander and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Alexander.”

The sleeping man jolted awake as if stung, elbow hitting the tea tray beside him on the table, and it clattered to the floor scattering its contents wide.

Simon held his hands up. “Alexander, it’s okay. It’s just Simon.”

“Er.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Simon crouched and began gathering up the scattered porcelain and the tray.  
  
“I did not hear you.” Alexander helped, mostly taking over. Simon let him.  
  
“Your door opened when I knocked.”  
  
“I was reading,” Alexander said. The conversation was now in a tangle and Simon realised he was still explaining why he hadn’t heard him – or at least he thought that was what Alexander was trying to do.  
  
“And fell asleep in the chair?” Simon watched Alexander take the collection of shattered crockery to the kitchenette. Alexander looked at him blankly, almost as if he hadn’t understood the question and had never seen Simon – or anything else in the room, for that matter – before. It was a massive change from the man he’d met earlier in the week, more than disconcerting.   
  
Spilt tea had pooled around the unfortunate book on the floor beside the armchair: Simon crouched and picked it up, letting droplets hit the rug and trying not to let the pages stick together. He carried it with him to find a tea towel; the nearest one was beside the sink, unused and pristine. It was about to save one of Alexander’s books, he hoped, from complete destruction.  
  
“I don’t think it’s got too wet.”  
  
Simon began wiping carefully with the tea towel, but Alexander’s blankness had given way, the wreckage on the tray apparently forgotten, and his fingers were moving as if he wanted to make for the book but was too polite to do so.  
  
“Er.”  
  
Simon handed it over; Alexander retreated to his living room-cum-library with it, and started dabbing at it with his handkerchief. Simon found himself thinking that it was like an injured animal; it had to be among the other books just to be reassured of its safety, as if the other volumes formed a kind of family to help the lone book regain its life after having been drowned in tea. He frowned to himself and did a quick mental assessment of the likely level of residual alcohol in his bloodstream.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“Er, yes. Thank you. But my book is damp. It is not good for books to become waterlogged.”  
  
The hesitance in his speech, his obsessive dedication to the book’s care and his apparent obliviousness to anything outside that narrow focus, even the change in his posture, made Simon feel like he was in some alternate reality. The man seemed to have undergone a total personality switch, or maybe a partial shut-down; it was like nothing Simon had ever seen or heard of before. He understood dementia and Alzheimer’s in general terms, he had acquired a basic working knowledge of schizophrenia when one of the sixth formers had been diagnosed with it, and his great uncle Wesley was acknowledged to be completely barmy, but this, the way Alexander was acting, was something else entirely. Even Alexander’s speech came out in an unusual precision. Every word seemed carefully chosen, examined, then given its position like a coach deciding which player had the best skills for the match ahead of them; and when he’d fielded his men, he sat back in his chair, thinking ‘job well done’.  
  
“Nay, I reckon not.” Simon continued to watch. “Did you have a good evening?”

Alexander looked at him blankly. “Evening?” It sounded like he had no idea what day it was, let alone what time.  
  
“Mm. Last night. Friday?”

“Was it?” Still unnervingly clueless, was Alexander. “I, er. I was reading my book. It is a very good book.”  
  
I’m sure it is... Simon thought as Alexander gave him a synopsis of his now-soaked book of ancient poetry, like Simon knew anything about the wider subject at all. It was halting and erratic, more confusing than enlightening, and Alexander’s expression became more and more worried as he went on. He looked like nothing so much as a small boy reciting his lesson and hoping against hope that his audience would be satisfied with his performance.  
  
Steps needed taking. “Aye, sounds good.” Simon hoped he sounded reassuring; the immediate – if minute - relaxation in Alexander’s posture told him that he’d succeeded.

“It is very interesting.”

Aye, you said that already... Simon cleared his throat. “You didn’t come to dinner last night.” I worried about you, since you’d been there all week. Even Matt had braved the dining hall, for about a quarter of a meal, because the Headmistress liked him and felt that Matt was a good example for the young ladies. The hormones of every girl old enough to have reached puberty also thought Matt was a good example, but not in quite the same way.  
  
Alexander blinked several times. “I developed a headache. I had to take my tablets.”  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have headaches a lot?”  
  
“Er, no. I do not usually develop headaches. Christopher feels that I have been working too hard. I develop headaches when I work too hard.”  
  
“Mm. I know that feeling.” Simon smiled and looked at Alexander’s messy hair. He wanted to reach out and run his fingers through it, see if it felt as good as it looked. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better. I reckon you haven’t eaten. Are you hungry? I just made breakfast.”  
  
“Er.” Alexander glanced at the wall of books, a broad shield from the outside world, or possibly a flock that was his to guard; either way, something that he would apparently prefer not to leave.  
  
“I could bring you a plate,” Simon suggested, hoping that this time, Alexander would accept without fuss.  
  
“Er, yes?” The expression on Alexander’s face read: that sounds lovely. “I would not wish to put you to any trouble.”  
  
“I offered, remember. It’s no trouble.”

“You are very kind.”  
  
Simon beamed. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

Simon went straight to the kitchenette in his room and began piling a plate full of what Matt had earmarked for his second breakfast; he could make more, if he really had to.

He crossed the hallway again to take the food to Alexander. The man was back in the kitchenette, making fresh tea in what Simon had to assume was his back-up tea service, but his attention seemed to flicker on and off. He started to put leaves in for steeping, then he stopped for a few moments before beginning again. Simon frowned. This man was intriguing and strange, like no one he’d met before; the mind, that massive intellect, was clearly still there: he’d demonstrated it when he had talked about his book, but it was as if it had somehow become distant from him, and he had to wait for a response from another planet before he could relay it. At least he seemed to have lost that edge of nervousness. Simon lifted his tray and took it to the table. “Here we are.” He smiled. “Still warm and everything.”

Alexander tensed and dropped a spoon. “Thank you.” The response sounded reflexive.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It is alright. I was not listening.” He bent down and picked up the spoon, then placed it with undue care in the sink. Simon was puzzled, but relieved: Alexander had been startled, but the generalised anxiety did not seem to have returned.

“Here, come sit. I’ll finish the tea.”

“It is alright, thank you. I can manage.”

There was no doubt that he could manage; Simon smiled. “Just didn’t want the food to go cold.”

“Er, no. Thank you.” He brought the tray, with everything a formal tea would require, and fussed with it as though absolute perfection was needed. He poured each of them a cup and looked at the food Simon had brought. The wheels turned, Simon could see that, but no comment was immediately forthcoming. He waited.

In due course, his patience was rewarded. “Won’t you...?”

“Hm?” Simon took a sip of his tea.

“Have some food.” His tone was worried.

Simon didn’t sigh at the relapse. “Mm.” He could always eat more. Alexander seemed to relax again, which Simon appreciated. He dished out some of the eggs, bacon and other things onto Alexander’s own plate and then gave himself a healthy portion. “How was your first week?”

Alexander’s face went blank, but he wasn’t tuned out, not in the same way as he had been all morning. It was more like he was retrieving the memory of the last week and conducting a measured review.

“Very interesting. Adolescent girls are not the same as postgraduates.”

Simon laughed. “No, I’d imagine not.”

“They do not pay attention.”

It wasn’t a complaint, as far as Simon could tell. He wasn’t sure. “They’re probably distracted by you.”

“I do not understand.”

Simon quirked his mouth. “You’re good-looking; they’re not used to having a good-looking bloke teach them.”

Pink spread like wildfire across Alexander’s face. “I do not see why that is significant.”

“Because they’re a bunch of young ladies whose hormones are just starting to be highly active?” The blank-slate look was back. Simon was going to have to explain himself. “You’re an attractive man. Most of them are...being educated to marry someone a bit like you. I mean, looks and education-wise.”

Alexander’s eyes cut across to Simon, then back to his food; the notion apparently displeased him. “I have no interest in marriage.”

Simon blinked, raising his eyebrows. This wasn’t a direction of conversation he had been going for, but if it would tell him more about Alexander, he’d stick with it. “No? Why not?”

“I have my work.”

“You don’t think you could be married and still work?”

“Wives require a great deal of attention.”

Simon blinked, surprised by the vague and yet somehow incredibly definite statement. He wondered if sex was the problem or if there he had something else in mind. Maybe Luce had been right and he was gay. Either way, it was a strange comment. “Oh, aye?”

Alexander nodded vaguely.

“And ladies are terribly, er, firm in their views.”

Note to self – Alexander and Luce may not get on.

He nodded again like a child disappointed. “Aunt Jane was a very independent lady of strong views.”

“You don’t want someone who has strong views, then. Or just not a woman?”

Alexander looked like an indignant, concussed duck. “I am quite happy with my work. I do not understand why people insist that I should marry.”  
  
Simon felt sorry for Alexander. “I don’t. I mean, I’m not. No, I don’t think someone should have to get married. I mean I’ll never be able to get married anyway...” He trailed off, aware that the train of conversation had derailed itself.

“That must be very nice.”

“What must be very nice?”

“Not being expected to be married,” Alexander said and sipped his tea.

“I reckon. If you don’t want a family and things, yeah.”

“I do not want to be married. Wives require far too much attention.”

And there was that bizarre assertion again. Alexander had never been anything but courteous to the multitude of women in the school, so it seemed unlikely to be anything as objectionable as general misogyny; nonetheless, Simon elected to leave it alone until he understood the man a little better.

“I don’t want a wife, either. But I would like a family.”

“You have got a family.” Alexander was so matter-of-fact that Simon looked at him for a moment. He’d missed the point.

“No, I mean my own children and partner.”

“It is possible to adopt children.”

“I know,” Simon said. “But I want my own. S’not the same. I mean, if I never find a decent partner, yeah, I reckon I’ll adopt.”

Alexander nodded vaguely. “I have thought about adopting.”

“Have you?” Simon was surprised, given Alexander’s views on the attention required by wives.  
  
“I should like to adopt a boy when I am older.”

“Aye?” Simon wondered if the conversation could get any more peculiar.

Alexander nodded.

“I want my own children, though, if I can manage it. Maybe I can find a surrogate or something. I’ve always wanted kids.”

“I have always wanted a dog.”

Simon smiled. “Got loads of them at the farm. I could take you to meet Bess one weekend. She’s mine.”

“You are very fortunate,” Alexander said seriously. “Aunt Jane did not like dogs. She said that they were dirty.”

He’d missed the whole point, Simon thought. “Well, she’s an old sheep dog. My nephew Jamie looks after her; she doesn’t get dirty any more, but I reckon she did when she was working the flock. It’s easy enough to brush the mud off, any road, and they don’t walk any more muck in than we do. Can’t really have a dog here, sadly. How’s your breakfast?”

Alexander looked down at his plate and gave the matter his consideration. “It is very nice, thank you.”

Warmth spread through Simon. He continued to shovel up his second breakfast and watched Alexander’s meticulous progress through his first.

His company was comfortable, once Simon got used to the quiet. Simon relaxed into his chair and drank his tea like he’d been doing so his entire life. It wasn’t chewy like he and Matt made, but it was very good. Guilt and worry melted away like ice in the summer from his shoulders, and he smiled, for no reason other than how much he liked being there.

Out of the blue, Alexander said, “You have a visitor. I heard the singing.”

“Aye. It’s my brother. He was bringing me my car. Well, his car, but he gave it to me.”

“That is very kind of him.”

“It is. He likes his old one, so he brings me the newer model.” Simon was surprised that he got away with it: the car was part of the sponsorship deal. It would probably have been different if Matt’s beloved old monster hadn’t been the same make.

Alexander nodded. “I have not got a car. I cannot drive. Christopher can drive.”

“Would you like to go for a ride sometime?”

Alexander looked blank.

“Would you like to go for a drive sometime?”

“You want me to drive your car?” He asked as though Simon had asked him the secret to the universe.

“Well, no, I was going to invite you to ride with me in the car...”

Alexander’s eyebrows moved up and his mouth opened slightly. “What for?”

“Er...I dunno. To show you around the area... Cardiff isn’t far away.”

The statement received due consideration, and Simon caught himself wondering why he found it endearing. “I have not been to Cardiff.”

“We should go sometimes, then. I like getting away at the week end.”

Alexander smiled. “That would be very nice.”

“Brilliant.” Simon returned the smile. “Do you have lunch or dinner plans?”

The question seemed to be alarming, and was answered cautiously. “Er, no.”

“I was just offering to bring you something. I always cook too much. Matt’s leaving tomorrow... I dunno. I think I like your company. It’s very relaxing.”

“Is it?” His eyes and eyebrows went up again. “Aunt Jane said that I was the most exasperating boy ever to have tried her patience.”

“I think she was wrong.”

Pink flooded Alexander’s face. “You are very kind.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that. I might actually blush.” Simon grinned.

Alexander’s expression went blank again. “But you are.”

“No one ever tells me, as such. It’s nice. Thank you.”

Alexander’s lips quirked and his brow furrowed as he relapsed into thought. When they were out of tea, Alexander got up.

“Would you like me to go?”

“No.”

Simon smiled and settled back into his chair while Alexander refreshed the tea and stacked the dirty breakfast things neatly in his sink. Matt had Luce to keep him company, and Simon was sure he was enjoying every second.

“So, how often do you get to see your brother?” Simon asked. Alexander mentioned him often enough, but actually said very little about their relationship; he was curious. He loved his brothers dearly, but knew himself to be very, very different from them: he wondered how their relationship compared to that between twins.

“Quite often, thank you. We go on holidays together.”

“Where was the last place you went?”

“China.”

“Aye? I’ve been to Turkey once, and Spain a few times, and France... never that far, though.” Only ever a short flight, and usually with Luce, because she liked her beach holidays, or as part of a school skiing trip.

Alexander started talking about China in the same erratic way he’d talked about everything else. He listed the places he had been, and gave Simon little facts about them – the key cultural and historic points of interest, until he ground to a halt, apparently having run out of sufficiently scintillating information.

“You’ve been all over, haven’t you?”

“I have travelled extensively.”

“Sounds nice.” Simon smiled.

“Er, yes. I like to travel.”

That much was obvious. “What’s your favourite place?”

Alexander’s expression changed. Simon could see the wheels turning as he thought – in the same pausing way as he spoke, perhaps – about how to answer the question. “England.”

“Why’s that?”

“It is home. Other places are nice to visit, but I like to come home.”

“I can understand that. Is home and family important to you?”

Alexander blinked at Simon perplexedly. “What do you mean?”

“Dunno. Just asking.”

“I am very fond of my brother. I am very fond of my home.”

Simon smiled. “Aye. Where’s your brother now?”

“He is still in Syria. He is teaching and studying.”

“Will he be coming back soon?”

Alexander nodded. “He will come home for half-term.”

“That’s a long time to wait to see him. The two of you are welcome to join me at the farm.”

“You are very kind. But we could not intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be. I promise.”

“Truly?”

“Yeah, it’s a farm.” Simon laughed. There were always people around.

“One may still be in the way on a farm.”

“There’s a cottage that you two can stop in, if you feel like you’re underfoot. Loads of land, through, and there are dogs.” Simon smiled.

Alexander smiled, too, a warm, lovely smile that lit up his eyes, but he wasn’t looking at Simon. His eyes were on the table, pink around his ears and neck. Simon wanted to kiss it, run his fingers across the change in Alexander’s pale skin.

“We’d be happy to have you.”

“Then I shall ask him if he would like to visit you.”

Simon nodded. The sunlight slanted across the room as the day progressed. His stomach growled, but he ignored it while Alexander showed him photos and told him stories about him and his brother. He couldn’t remember feeling so relaxed in his life. No worries, no troubles – nothing. He looked down at the stack of photos Alexander had picked up and was just holding in mid-air like he’d paused in the middle of the thought.

“Tell me about the tortoise,” Simon said, looking at the top photo.

Alexander blinked. “Tortoise?”

“Mm. You’ve got a photo of a tortoise in your hand.”

“Er, yes. His name was Herman. Mrs Bishop gave him to us when we were children, but he ran away.”

It was hard not to laugh and feel bad simultaneously. How did a tortoise ‘run’ away? He would bet Aunt Jane had something to do with the poor creature’s disappearance, but he didn’t dare tell Alexander that.

“Ran away?”

“Tortoises can move quite quickly.” It seemed to be a sore point: Alexander had spoken almost defensively.

“That’s too bad.”

“We were very upset. I wish that he had not run away. We looked after him well.”

“Are you sure he ran away? I mean, could he have been let out of the garden or something?”

“He ran away.”

“Sorry to hear that. You were very fond on him, weren’t you?”

Alexander nodded. “He was our pet.”

Simon nodded, too. He wasn’t sure what to say. He smiled and reached for a different subject. “Shall I make us some dinner this evening?”

Alexander demurred instantly. “But you brother is visiting you.” He blinked. “Er. I am sorry. I should not have kept you here. You must go back to your brother.”

“Nay, it’s alright. I was enjoying myself.”

“But your brother is visiting you.”

“I can still enjoy myself with you. But you’re right. I should go back to him. He won’t have any free weekends for a while.”

Alexander nodded. “It has been very nice.”

“I promise I’ll come back.” Simon grinned. “How’s that?”

Alexander went pink and smiled shyly again.

“See you later, Alexander.” He smiled. “I enjoyed myself.”

Alexander nodded. “Er, yes.”

Simon opened the door and looked back at the shy, happy expression on Alexander’s face, pleased with himself. He couldn’t remember having been this happy in a long time. Even if Alexander wasn’t gay, he was special. Simon wanted him as a friend, even if they never became lovers; he knew that for certain. He smiled wider and closed the door and went to his own room. Matt and Luce were waiting for him, but he didn’t know what to say. His only thought was Alexander.

It wasn’t long before he started up one of the game consoles on auto-pilot and ended up getting his arse handed to him by Luce. She always managed to out-wit him and Matt, even when they played teams, unless it was rugby. Then Matt and Simon managed to wreak havoc on whatever team Luce chose. Even if Matt was playing against his game-self because she got to choose first. Simon chuckled as Matt won a line-out, playing as That Prat. He stared at the screen, his big fingers navigating a play the game wouldn’t even allow.

Simon got up and brought everyone a beer, even though it was just after breakfast. They had no other plans, and if Simon got too drunk, they could always go to the pub later to eat. Matt was not mucking around in his little kitchen and ruining food.

When he wasn’t playing, his mind wandered across the hall to Number Seven like a sonic frequency. His brain became zombified and h believed he belonged there with Alexander.

He shuddered. He reckoned he knew what Matt had felt like when he’d met Luce, now. He felt off-balance and couldn’t work out how to stop feeling as though he’d lost an arm, or perhaps a piece of his heart.


End file.
